


More Lonely Than Distrust

by BuggreAlleThis



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ancient Near East, Ancient Rome, Angst with a Happy Ending, Babylonian Captivity, Betrayal, Blackmail, Crucifixion, Dark Crowley (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Gore, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Incantation Bowls, Isolation, Loneliness, M/M, Manipulation, Middle Ages, Mutual Pining, Pining, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Redemption, Regret, Rescue kink, Self-Harm, Slavery, Slow Burn, Solitary Confinement, Trapped In A Closet, Trojan War, Whump, plagues of egypt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 90,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuggreAlleThis/pseuds/BuggreAlleThis
Summary: Canon-divergent AU. Gabriel catches Aziraphale in the act of giving away his sword, and so the meeting on the wall of Eden never takes place. Crowley's experience of angels on Earth is very different, but he quickly adapts. It's 'kill or be killed', and Crowley has no intention of spending any more time in Hell than he has to.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1807
Kudos: 1351
Collections: Hurt Aziraphale





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's a Great Fandom Crime to begin a new WIP while one languishes, but as much as I absolutely will continue with 'Hext House', it's a story that requires much more effort and a more delicate touch than I'm able to give right now. Over the next few weeks I have a lot of work stuff to do, my family's still dealing with bereavement shit on top of the usual dysfunctional shit, I'm mental af and likely to remain so, and I just needed something really tropey and melodramatic to give me something else to think about.
> 
> This fic was engendered by [thehufflepuffwholeaptthroughtime](https://thehufflepuffwholeaptthroughtime.tumblr.com/) asking what a reversal of [Shifting Heaven and Earth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20070352/chapters/47533399) might look like, with Crowley on Earth without Aziraphale. And I thought that it might be a way to write a more violent Enemies to Lovers fic than Crowley and Aziraphale usually get, especially with the new TV interpretation! I've never written proper Enemies to Lovers before, so this is very much an experiment, but I hope it'll be one you enjoy! <3

The Earth smelt like Heaven. The clouds were no longer pale wisps or white mountains; they were heavy, low, and black. Something was building in the air. God was making Her Presence felt.

Aziraphale stood next to the Eastern Gate, stern and implacable. He was quite good at _stern and implacable,_ as long as he didn’t have to maintain it for more than a couple of minutes. He was, and always had been, extremely placable by nature.

The new and admittedly rather hastily created ‘Eastern Gate’ was worrying him. He’d never liked to point out to the Almighty that She’d appointed him Guardian of the Eastern Gate when Eden _had_ no gates. It was only when he was told that the humans were going to be sent out of the Eastern Gate did he suddenly realise that perhaps making the Gate in the first place had _also_ been his responsibility? And now Adam and Eve were on their way for their devastating expulsion, and there was no Gate through which to expel them.

It didn’t look like a very impressive Gate at all, really. It looked like he’d just blasted a hole in the wall in a panic. This was because that was exactly what he'd done.

Hiding his nerves, he gestured towards the ‘Gate’ with his flaming sword. The sword was from the Almighty Herself; it burnt hot and bright, and Aziraphale hoped that it would make him look more intimidating and lend the scene a little dignity.

Eve was swiping water from her face. Her expression shook Aziraphale to his core. So many of the rebel angels had looked like that as they Fell. He remembered the fear, and the grief, and his pleas for mercy, one voice among a million, all begging God to be merciful to their wayward friends.

He remembered the guilty relief that it was not him, when those pleas went unheeded. He remembered thinking that whatever pain he'd felt during the War, surely it didn't compare to the pain of the Rebels, who had lived through the same battles and fighting, and now also endured this additional humiliation, the terror, the burning wings, the helpless fall…

Eve must be feeling all that now too, and Adam as well. The humiliation and the terror. The pain. It caught like a hook in Aziraphale’s throat, and the point of the sword wavered.

“You… you look rather spiffing, you know,” he offered. “In your lovely new clothes. Very… verdant.”

Eve made a gulping sound, and brought her hands up to hide her face again. Adam’s beautiful black eyes were unfamiliar. Aziraphale had never seen them alight with anger before.

His arm dropped, and the sword pointed to the ground. “I _am_ sorry about all of this,” Aziraphale said in a rush. “There really was only the one rule, and Rules are Rules, and… But it’s wretched, I know. Find somewhere… Somewhere with walls like this, yes? Something to stop the wind. And, and you remember what I told you about the water, don’t you? Don’t drink it unless it’s moving. _If it’s still, let it spill; if you’re knowing, drink what’s flowing!_ I made it rhyme, to help you remember…”

The two humans stared at him. Eve’s hand was curling protectively around her belly. Adam tugged her hand, moving towards the hole. The Eastern Gate.

The clouds made a noise like the wheels of God’s chariot. Aziraphale looked at the humans' soft, clawless hands – their flat teeth – their smooth, wingless backs. Aziraphale had two sets of wings: one with which to fly in escape, or to attack, and one to shield his body and hide his nakedness. The humans didn’t even have _one_ pair, weaker and more exposed than the lowest of angels. Eve’s hand was around her belly, to protect the humans within who were even smaller and more vulnerable than she was. As though her hand was any kind of shield.

Before he could think, before he lost his nerve, he shoved the hilt of the sword towards Adam. “Look, take this – it’s sharp, it’ll do against teeth and claws, if you- you know, give a jab. And it’s warm; go and find somewhere _warm_ , please. But don’t touch the fire or it’ll hurt like the dickens. Don’t thank me,” Aziraphale said, looking nervously over his shoulder for any witnesses.

“What is ‘thank’?” asked Eve.

Aziraphale looked back at the two humans. “Oh. Right, of course. Well, um. Easy not to thank me, then. Just… just go on, as quickly as you can. Don’t let the sun go down on you here.”

Adam nodded his head. Eve looked at him, her eyes bright with the new glitter of her forbidden knowledge. Aziraphale wondered what she saw within him, with those newly wise eyes.

Aziraphale stood at the Eastern Gate of Eden, watching his two wards go out into the desert under a wild sky. Adam held up the sword as he led them out, wary for the very first time.

A heavy hand landed on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Mind explaining what _the Hell_ that was, Aziraphale?”

*

Crawly slithered up the vast wall, which was a lot harder than he made it look, aiming for the fair-haired angel on the battlements. “Well, that went down like a lead balloon,” he remarked cordially as he took his usual form.

The angel’s hair was golden: bright brown, or dark yellow – a genuine twin of the gold that ran through the earth. His eyes were a different shade of the same colour. They were the colour of amber, and full of contempt. They were stern and implacable.

The angel shoved his sword to the hilt into Crawly’s belly, and dragged it up. It lodged fast against Crawly’s sternum; Crawly was, understandably, now lying on the wall of Eden, and the angel put his bare foot on Crawly’s chest to pull the sword free.

Crawly realised that his mortal body was dying. He tried to grab power to save it from Hell, from _anywhere_ , but the pain and the fear of it was too great to think through. All he could do was look up at the angel, glorious and disgusted, seemingly miles above him.

“Slithering filth.”

And Crawly’s body died, and Hell dragged him down.

*

The angel’s name was Zahabiel, and he was a prick.

By the time Crawly persuaded Hell to let him back up to Earth, Eve had given birth to twins and was preggers with another set. They screamed. They were snotty and stupid. But Earth was sometimes warm and dry, like Hell never was. On Earth there was _space_ , and Crawly wasn’t going to be sent back down to Hell again without a fight.

He was cautious with his new body. He watched from afar. He slithered close, and noted when Zahabiel lifted his nose and sniffed the air. “Something smells… evil.”

“It’s just the baby,” Eve said, rolling her eyes. She didn’t seem to like the angel either.

So, Crawly thought. He smelt evil. He made himself smaller, and noted that he was able to come closer before Zahabiel noticed him.

Crawly retreated to a safe distance. His physical shape had an effect on his spiritual attributes? It made sense. _Smelling_ was, after all, a physical sense. He learnt everything he could about smelling, and then all the other senses. He kept to his snake form whenever he was close to the humans or the angel. There weren’t a whole lot of other adult humans for him to blend in around yet.

Crawly killed Zahabiel for the first time when Cain’s sister Awan had her first bleeding. Zahabiel had been so distracted by it that Crawly had been able to bite the bastard on the ankle and then escape in the resulting hullabaloo. It was a genuine pleasure to watch his venom steal the life from the angel’s body over a night and a day, while the angel floundered like an idiot trying to heal himself.

But Zahabiel had apparently never bled, and did not know that the red liquid his body contained had already carried the venom to every part of his flesh. He died in agony, never working out what had happened, and Crawly laughed and laughed.

Crawly did the same thing when Zahabiel returned four years later. Those angel-free years were unlike anything Crawly had experienced. Certainly unlike anything he’d experienced since Lucifer’s Rebellion. It was full of things like cool water and baking on a warm rock in the sun. It was full of singing and the fresh air. The sweetness of fruit and honey, and the savoury richness of meat cooked over a fire.

Ah, that was the one anomaly. The one thing that niggled at the back of his mind. Crawly couldn’t approach Adam and Eve themselves to ask about how they’d managed to nick a flaming sword off one of the cherubim of Eden. That was the only place they could have found one. Maybe some absent-minded idiot had put it down, and Adam or Eve had had the good sense to make off with it before they left.

Zahabiel was on his guard when he was sent down in his third body, and he’d learnt how to cure himself of Crawly’s venom.

Luckily for Crawly, his observation of his natural cousins had shown him how to squeeze someone to death as well as to poison them, and unlike his natural cousins, he didn’t intend to restrict himself to one or the other.

He didn’t enjoy killing Zahabiel as much that time. It took much longer, and Crawly had to be wrapped around the angel throughout it instead of retreating to a safe distance to watch. He had to tighten his coils against Zahabiel’s struggles and feel them gradually grow weaker. He had to listen to the sounds Zahabiel made. He had to feel the cracking of bones, and the sensations of blood on his scales.

It was kill or be killed, he told himself. He didn’t have a choice. He had to kill the angel first, every time, or he’d be sent back down to Hell for Satan only knew how long. If he was ever even allowed back up to Earth again.

When he felt the pull of an angel back to Heaven, he unwound himself from the mangled body and made for the nearest body of water. His skin felt tight; he could still feel Zahabiel’s warmth in his blood. It was sickening.

He wasn’t able to relax until he had sloughed his skin for the first time. He left it, like a physical ghost, on the shore of the lake.

It wasn't like the angel was _dead_. He’d just been discorporated, exactly like the other two times. And Zahabiel had proved that he had no qualms at all about killing Crawly without a second thought. No, this was what existence was, now. Kill or be killed. If he wasn’t killing, he was down in Hell.

By the time Zahabiel came back after another five years, Cain had murdered his brother, and Crawly had his second commendation.

For a long stretch neither could get the jump on the other, and Crawly had to return to the shadows. Suddenly _everyone_ was fighting everyone else. Adam and Eve had been on Earth for more than a hundred years, the latter popping out twins or triplets every year or two, and by now were great-grandparents.

Crawly infiltrated a group of granddaughters, making up a lie about having been thrown out of another group of humans in Nod, the land east of Eden. He asked them about the fire, pretending to be very impressed.

“This is a child-fire,” said Balbira, dandying her son on her knee. “They come from the first-fire, which the angel gave to Adam and Eve.”

Oho, that was interesting. He was finally far enough removed from Adam and Eve that he could ask about the flaming sword. He tried to look innocent. “It’s a bigger fire?”

“No,” said Luluwa. “It’s small, about so big. It’s metal, with a wooden handle. But the fire never goes out, and never burns the wood.”

Crawly gasped. “I’ve heard of that! It’s a great legend, in my people. We call it a sword. I never believed that your people could have something so wonderful.”

“Well, we do,” said Balbira proudly. “And it’s called a sword, yes, that’s what Adam and Eve call it too! A sword. The sword is the wood and metal, and the fire is the heat and the light.”

“Wow,” Crawly said, suitably awed. “And how did they get the sword?”

“The Cherub gave it to them.”

“A Cherub… gave them a flaming sword.” Crawly laughed. “Good one!”

“It’s true! When they were told to leave the Garden, one of the angels was sad for them and gave them his flaming sword.”

“I think you mean some idiot left his flaming sword somewhere and they nicked it.”

Balbira was getting angry. “You can go and ask Eve if you don’t believe me! He gave it to them! How else could they shape the metal? How could they had made something of wood that doesn’t burn? You’re the idiot!”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t originally an angel’s sword, I’m saying that an angel would never give it away! Especially not a Cherub! You know what Zahabiel’s like. Even I do, among the other people. He’s an arsehole. He’s a dog’s arsehole. All angels are.”

“Not this Cherub,” Balbira said. “Eve said he was stupid but kind. He told them to drink only flowing water, not stagnant, and that he was sad that God made them leave. Then he gave them his own sword from his own hand.”

“She never said he was stupid!” Luluwa piped up. “She said he was _bosh_. You know. He had _bosheth_ , all the time. She never knew what _bosheth_ was, before the Serpent told her to eat the apple. But she said that the angel of the sword had _bosheth_ all the time, even though he was clothed. _Bosheth_ and fear.”

“That means he’s stupid! What would a be Cherub afraid of, except the Serpent?” Balbira asked. “And in the Garden there was nothing to fear, was there? So if he had fear then he was a fool.”

“The Serpent was in the Garden!” Luluwa retorted.

“But what about the sword?” asked Crawly. Normally he’d have enjoyed listening to opinions about himself, but not tonight. “And the angel – did your people ever say his name?”

“I don’t think so. They never asked,” Luluwa said.

“Did they say what he looked like?”

“No. I only ever asked about the sword. You should go to Eve and ask her!”

“Oh, I’m an outsider,” said Crawly. “I don’t want to be rude. You go and ask her, and you can tell me what she says!”

“I’ll ask her,” Balbira said. “I’m not afraid. I’ll ask her everything about the angel of the sword, and Eden, and the Serpent, and then I’ll know more than you, Luluwa, and you can stop your nose-looking!”

“You’ll do no such thing,” a voice above Crawly said.

A hand fisted in his hair, and a very cold, non-flaming sword sliced through his throat. There was pain, and _blood_ , blood everywhere, blood pouring out of him faster than Crawly could force it back in.

He tried to heal the gash across his throat, and when he couldn’t muster the power for that he knew he was done for. Above him, Zahabiel was scolding the two women. “Did you not look into her eyes?! Could you not see she was the Serpent?! Asking about angels, and that _damned sword_ \- you are never to speak of it again! Any of you!”

Crawly tried to hold onto some of the words, but they were melting into the dust with his blood, turning it into mud. He just tried to cling to the thought that an angel had voluntarily given away classified technology. He could buy a fast ticket back up with something like that.

With the intelligence that Heaven had a traitor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was either going to be one very long chapter or two shorter ones, so I decided on the latter so I can rush on to meet my work deadline! It also separates out more of the graphic and gory stuff, but I'll warn properly for that next chapter.

The halls were silent, save for three sounds: Gabriel’s steady footsteps, Aziraphale’s shuffling, and the uneven _stick-unstick_ of his bare, bloodied feet on the immaculate floor. The blood had poured down his back, down his thighs and calves. It no longer dripped. But he had to peel his soles from the shining marble as he tried to keep up, and the soft _pfup pfup pfup pfup_ echoed in his ears.

The halls were silent, but they were not empty. Angels of every rank watched as the two passed: the Archangel Gabriel, and the angel who had been a cherub. He had been demoted, right down, to the very bottom of the hierarchy.

Aziraphale knew that he was lucky that God had not decreed that he should Fall instead. No. Not lucky. He was _fortunate_. God had been merciful to him.

He tried to remember that, as he stumbled. He was used to the weight of four wings. Now that he only had two, he was unbalanced. Every movement pulled at the open wounds on his back. The linen shift which had once been his second pair of wings was stuck to them.

The Archangels had closed up the wounds the decapitations of his aquiline, leonine, and bovine heads had caused. He did not know why those of his wings remained open. Gabriel had said that his third and fourth wings were symbols of the dignity of his rank, rather than its offices and responsibilities. Perhaps that was the difference.

He didn’t dare ask why. He kept his gaze on the floor, too ashamed to meet the eyes of any of the witnesses.

“It really has been a puzzle,” Gabriel remarked as they pass out of the Judgement Hall’s narthex. He was leading Aziraphale down an enclosed corridor which Aziraphale had never seen before. “We’ve never had an angel that needed a punishment before who hadn’t Fallen. It’s been really inconvenient.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you said that, like, a hundred times,” Gabriel said. “Anyway. We’ve made this for you.”

It took Aziraphale several seconds to look up. When he saw the small room of white marble, he felt relief. No blades. No saws. And no other angels, no one to watch his pain and humiliation and punishment. “Oh, thank you – _thank you_.”

“No problemo. Gives us some time to work out what the Hell we’re meant to do with you now. So, you can sit in there, and think about what you’ve done.”

Aziraphale nodded desperately. “I will. It was wrong. I know it was wrong.”

“What was wrong?”

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut. “Leaving the Tree of Knowledge unguarded. Giving away the flaming sword with which God entrusted me.”

“That’s right. Now, I want you to think about _why_ those things were so wrong.”

“Because it- the sword is classified technology-“

“No, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel. “I don’t want some rote answer. I don’t want you to tell me what you think I want to hear! I want to know why _you_ think you’re being punished.”

“Yes, Gabriel,” Aziraphale agreed readily, not particularly understanding the distinction. “Absolutely.”

“Okay. Well, in you go.” Aziraphale glanced up for just long enough to see Gabriel’s outstretched hand and raised eyebrows; he hurried in, though pain webbed white-hot across his back in his rush to obey.

Gabriel gave him a final moue of disappointment, and a block of white marble rolled across the entrance to the room. Its edges melted away, leaving Aziraphale in a doorless, windowless cube.

The silence, the _peace_ , was mercy. God truly was Good. Aziraphale lay down on his front, resting his single remaining head in his arms. The length and breadth and height of the room was about twelve cubits - just big enough for him to open his wings. The floor was cold and hard. But it was clean, and the world was finally still.

He could finally begin to comprehend his losses. What had been done to him.

No. His losses. What he had lost due to his own ill-judgement.

He finally had a moment in which to grieve.

*

He had a good idea of what he was going to say. How he was going to improve. That was key to a good apology, he thought, now that they were all working within a more linear flow of time. It should encompass past, present, and future. What he had done wrong in the past, how sorrowful it made him feel in the present, and how he would ensure it didn't happen again in the future. 

Yes.

Only Gabriel didn't come back.

*

He didn’t know whether it was the Sabbath or not. When he realised this for the first time he screamed, and pounded at the door. “Gabriel! Gabriel, please. I’m sorry! I don’t know what’s- what I’m allowed to do!” Had he missed it? How many laws had he accidentally broken? “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Gabriel!”

He pounded on the marble until he realised that he no longer knew whether that was even the wall which had once been a door.

He collapsed, holding his bruised and aching hand to his chest. _Had_ he been banging on a wall, not the door? Banging away into nothingness? And why didn’t he know?

Or was he inside a block of marble? How far did it go in every direction? It could be miles. He didn’t need to breathe, he _knew_ he didn’t, but the pain in his human chest was unbearable.

He banged on every wall of the cube. He banged on the ceiling and the floor, until his fists were bloody.

“I just need to know if it’s the Sabbath,” he whispered into a corner. “I need to know what I can’t do. Gabriel. Please. Just… Just if it’s the Sabbath yet. Please.”

*

It was easier to think about his wings. It took a long time for the wounds to heal, but gradually, over time, the blinding pain was lesser and lesser, and Aziraphale could feel the scabs, then the new skin and hard knots of scar tissues. While he waited, he composed his answer for Gabriel. It was good, he thought. Everyone word was carefully pondered and considered, to show the maximum amount of penitence and obedience. By the time the wounds closed, he had memorised it completely.

He was happy when he had. One less thing to worry about.

Gabriel had turned the two severed wings back into the linen robe he’d worn in Eden. Once he realised that Gabriel might be a little while, Aziraphale removed the robe.

He imagined that the unfamiliar flaxen fibres could be unspooled. That if he prayed hard enough, _well_ enough, time could unspool too. He’d be a better guardian of the apple tree, this time. He’d be as stern and implacable as God wanted.

He stroked the linen, and imagined that it was plumage.

*

It was far more difficult to think about his heads. He’d never been so _alone_ before; he’d never before been so crushed into one head, one form of expression. Were they still with him, in his human body? Was he one angel now? He had to be. So they weren’t dead, he reassured himself. They weren’t gone. They were just less visible now, less immediately apparent. They were still inside him.

He gave them different tasks. His lion’s head was still, and his ox’s head moved. He realised that if he paced enough in this human body, he would begin to make a shape in the marble. He would be able to make it smooth and slippery.

The thought appealed. Making a change. Reminding himself that he existed.

Now, _that_ was a strange thought. As time began to drag, he had more and more thoughts like that.

*

There was a sliver of skin beside one of his fingernails. It hurt when he tugged it, and the pain was bright and clarifying. He yanked, and the skin came away in a thin strip.

The bead of blood that welled up was red. Scarlet. Crimson. It was the best and brightest and most beautiful red he had ever seen.

He wrote the name of God on the wall. He didn’t know whether it was blasphemous, but blood belonged to God, so he hoped She understood. It made him feel a little better, to have it there. It felt like a part of Her was with him.

*

To pass the time, he started to think about prime numbers. Every time he reached a new prime number, he recited his speech of penitence. Just to make sure he remembered it.

*

Crawly fell through the ceiling of Hell and landed on a Legionnaire. “Fuck!”

“Crawly, sir-!” the Legionnaire said in excitement, and Crawly incinerated him with a snap of his fingers.

Another one was already running forward. “Oh, you were doing so well that time, sir, four in a row-“

Crawly shoved the Legionnaire away from him. He couldn’t stand them. One legion of fallen angels hadn’t been able to cope with the change; they missed the interconnectedness of the Host too much. They traded their names and identities for a profane simulacrum of it. One could kill as many Legionnaires as one wished, and the number of the Legion would always remain the same.

Not angels. Barely demons, for all that they coaxed their hair into the shape of horns, fooling no-one. Not even people anymore.

They reminded him to maintain his individuality at all costs. To remember who he was. He was never going to let loneliness turn him into something so craven and dependent.

There was a scoreboard in the corridor leading to Hastur’s office, and yet another Legionnaire was amending Amahiel’s score. Crawly set him on fire as he passed it.

CRAWLY | ZAHABI--

///////// | ////

/////// | PANIMI--

| /

| AMAHI--

| ///

RUNNING TOTAL:

16 | 8

“Crawly!” Hastur said with a smile. Hastur _liked_ him. Well, Hastur liked pain and death and he especially liked pain and death in conjunction with angels, so Crawly gave him plenty of material.

“Hi, sir,” he said, throwing himself down onto a stool. One shouldn’t be able to lounge on a stool, but with a little effort he managed it. He nodded to Hastur’s not-friend. “Hi, Duke Ligur. How’s tricks?”

“Oh, you know me. Cruel and unusual.”

“Always the best kind!”

“Shame to see you down here so soon,” Hastur said. “You were on such a good streak as well.”

“I know. Stupid bastard – he’s got forearms like you’ve never seen. Like fucking cedar trunks. He choked me off right before I could finish it.” He chuckled, because some things had to be laughed at, even at one’s own expense. “Classic.”

Hastur and Ligur didn’t laugh.

Right. Course. Hell’s sense of humour was rather different to Earth’s. It didn’t have one, for a start.

Crawly rubbed his hands together. “Anyway, already got ideas for the next go I get at him, so I’ll head back up.”

“Yes… About that. You’re going through a lot of bodies, Crawly.”

“Half as many as Heaven is.”

“Still. Heaven does have Someone who can create _ex nihilo_ , don’t they? Our Dark Lord’s very nearly there, but until then… Bodies are complicated machines, Crawly. They take a while to make. People are beginning to think you’re getting more than your fair share.”

“Right,” Crawly said quickly. “Very duly noted, Duke Hastur. Whatever you can give me. Just… eager to rejoin the fray.”

“You always are,” Ligur grumbled. He had a voice like tectonic plates shifting.

“Just fucking hate those angel bastards. It’s the hypocrisy I really loathe, you know? I mean, some of them are just malicious – not that there’s anything wrong with that, big malice fan, me – but then they _ruin_ it with self-righteousness. Gross.”

“Hmm. They are,” Hastur agreed. “All right, Crawly, I’ll sign off your next one. Just try to make it last a bit longer this time.”

“Absolutely. Lie low. Savour the moment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In all my fics, I have a backstory that Aziraphale was demoted from Cherub to Principality to explain the disparity in the book. This includes the decapitation of three of his four heads, and the removal of two of his four wings. The second pair of wings for the cherubim is to cover their nakedness before God, so I think that on Earth, those wings manifested as the robe that we see in the television programme. My thought is that that's why Aziraphale refuses to manifest clothing from nothing due to angelic "moral standards".


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: gore and self-harm, both a result of extremely prolonged solitary confinement. Brief reference to physical torture. I've tried to keep the writing relatively un-graphic and un-detailed. Thank you so much to drasnianfrank, ileolai, thehufflepuffwholeaptthroughtime, and ivyroyale for really helpful feedback and advice!

Aziraphale had worried, once, about tearing cloth, or tying knots. Just in case it was the Sabbath.

He didn’t care anymore.

What had once been his linen robe lay in a small pile in one corner of the cube. Every time he walked one million steps, he could tear off a new tiny scrap, carefully biting through each thread. Every time he reached a new prime number, he plucked out a hair. With this, he made another little knot in the linen, beginning to tie a new scrap to his fabric wings.

*

His body had started to do a strange thing. Sometimes, when he was lying down and staring at the marble whiteness, eyes tracing the same veins that once ran through the stone and now ran through his brain instead…

What?

Right. His body. Sometimes, when he was lying down and staring at the marble whiteness, eyes tracing the same veins that once ran through – wait.

*

Sometimes he had visions. Visions of the Sapphire Throne, of Heaven, of the Garden of Eden. He was transported from the Cube, and was able to walk again. Smell the air. He saw bees and flowers, or felt anxious when other angels walked past, or felt love blossom when he saw God in Her Garden, barefoot on the grass.

Then he would open his eyes, and his body was lying down against the hard marble. He’d feel heavy and sluggish and stiff.

But it was a small price to pray, for those visions.

*

He started with his coverts. He realised that when he pulled out a hair, the hair returned, after a time. So he plucked out a feather.

It was painful. A red jolt of pain ran through him, and made him breathe raggedly.

So he pulled out another.

*

Aziraphale lost count some time after 87,178,291,199. That was the last prime he remembered. He had been close, he could feel it, but he’d… lost it. 479,001,599. No, 87,178,291,199. A factorial prime. He always had a little celebration when he reached a special prime. Had a little party. Sang to God. Indulged in a little cry. He scrabbled uselessly against the walls, trying to find his last number. It had been there just a second ago, and now it was… now it was…

*

“Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale sprang to his feet. Something had happened to his human legs since he’d stopped pacing the cube, and they splayed apart under him. “Lord?” he cried, and pulled himself up. The marble walls were pitted all over with small holes, made by desperately scrabbling fingertips over the years – it was using these that he pulled himself up. “Lord! I’m here! I’m here, I’m here, You found me-“

“Aziraphale.”

He looked around for the quiet, gentle voice. “I’m here! Please! Can I- Am I allowed-? Lord!”

She didn’t respond. “No!” Aziraphale shouted, and began to hammer on the walls. “No! I’m here! Come back! Come back! Please, please, come back!”

He beat at the marble until he could no longer move his hands, they were so swollen. He leant against a wall and sank to what he thought of as the floor, and screamed into his linen wings.

*

Pulling out the first primary was hard. It took several tries for him to build up the courage, and that was exhilarating beyond words. _Putting something off_. What a pleasure. What bliss.

When he did finally yank it out, the pain was like nothing he’d ever known. He went blind from it, and lay gasping, and held his own primary feather in his hands. It was more than a metre long, and the calamus was _hard_.

Not as hard as the marble. But more than hard enough to pierce his skin. This was going to be much more interesting than gnawing with his teeth.

*

“AZIRAPHALE.”

Dread clenched him in its hand, as tight as a vice. He crammed himself into the corner of the Cube. God didn’t sound gentle anymore. Every time She called his name, She sounded more angry. “Lord?”

“AZIRAPHALE. AZIRAPHALE.”

“I’m sorry.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and brought his arms over his head. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-“

*

He wrote on the walls until the calamus of his primary feather was worn away to a nub. It was very strange, thought Aziraphale, as he waited for the strength to pull out another, gazing into the hole in his abdomen that had become his makeshift inkwell. He wrote and wrote and wrote, but every time he tried to read what he had written, he couldn’t make out a single word.

*

Aziraphale opened his eyes, and saw his three heads staring back at him. “I think I had another vision,” he said.

The feather that was his eagle head fell over. Aziraphale nodded in agreement.

*

He never considered imagining what God might say in reply to him. To all his prayers. That would be _blasphemy_.

Or was it idolatry? What was the difference?

*

“Fuck! Fuck!” Crawly slammed his fists against the damp concrete floor of Hell. “Ow! Ow, fuck!”

“What happened?” said a Legionnaire. Crawly kneed him in the groin for his audacity.

Two of them. Fucking _two_ of them. Neumiel had brought Zahabiel back in, had she? Two angels on one demon, bad fucking odds. He couldn’t be blamed. The cheating fucks.

CRAWLY | ZAHABI--

///////// | ////

///////// | PANIMI--

///////// | /

// | AMAHI –-

| ///

| SANAHI--

| //

| NEUMI –-

| ////

RUNNING TOTAL:

29 | 14

He saw red when he walked past the scoreboard. It took a few moments to find a suitable chair, but smashing the shit out of felt very good.

Crawly threw open the door to Hastur’s office so hard the glass would have shattered if it wasn’t already jagged and broken. “Sorry. Hi, sir. Need a body.”

Hastur sighed. “Hello, Crawly. Back already?”

“Yeah. Not my fault. Two of them ganged up on me. Hi, Duke Ligur. How’s it hanging?”

“Ah, you know. By its intestines, screaming.”

“Wish those two fucking angels were. Did I mention that Zahabiel’s back down? Realised he can only take me with back-up.”

“So… Heaven now has _two_ agents running around getting up to good, and we’ve got no one,” said Ligur, lurking behind him.

“Like I said, not my fault. I’ve got an idea, though. As soon as I can get back up-“

“Yeah,” said Hastur, “only thing is, Crawly, you’re not.”

Crawly went very, very still. “Excuse me?”

“You’re grounded. Helled. Whatever.”

“But- but no one knows Earth like I do!”

“Yeah, and you’re still fucking up.”

“I’ve killed them twice as often-“

“That’s not your mission!” Hastur suddenly snarled. “Your mission is to win souls for our Lord! Your mission is to gather intelligence! Your mission is to advance our influence over the Earth _and all the kingdoms thereof_ , remember?”

“And instead,” Ligur murmured silkily, and grabbed the back of Crawly’s neck, “you’re spending precious time and precious resources whipping your dick out and measuring it against some celestial nobodies.”

“Five hundred years, you’ve had,” Hastur said. “And what’ve we got from it, eh? That’s not to say we don’t appreciate all the entertainment you’ve provided us with. Very good for morale.” Hastur leant across the desk. “But this is hell, Crawly, innit? We don’t _like_ morale. If we wanted morale, we’d all still be Up There, wanking each other off with fistfuls of feathers.”

“Maybe Crawly wishes he was,” said Ligur. “Maybe that’s why you’re so obsessed…?”

“I’m not!” Crawly nodded desperately at Hastur and felt Ligur’s fingers tighten around his neck. “I’m not. I get it. I was… Lost sight of the big picture. Sure. But I love Hell. Love it. I mean, hate it, but, you know. We’re all mates, in it together, yeah?”

“No, Crawly. We’re not mates. Just because I find your antics entertaining, it don’t mean I like you. I despise you.”

“I _loathe_ you,” Ligur added from behind him. “I think it’s got less contempt than _despising_ , but it’s more enduring, you know?”

“Yeah, I reckon,” said Hastur. “ _Hate_ ’s got more energy though.”

“I totally get it,” Crawly said.

“No, I don’t think you do. You’ve got five years in the torture pits, and hopefully that’ll jog your mind back into gear. Remind you of your priorities.”

“Oh,” Crawly said to Hastur. “I’m not brilliant at the old torture. Tend to run out of ideas after the rack. I’m not as clever as you guys, with all your… pliers.”

“Don’t worry, Crawly. You won’t be required to be creative, because you’re not going to be a torturer.” Hastur grinned, showing teeth rotten black. “But if you scream very nicely, Ligur might let you play with the big boy toys for a bit. Once you’ve learnt how to appreciate a corporal form again, I’ll think about letting you have another one.”

“Nrh… Um-“

“Every syllable gets another year,” Ligur grumbled in his ear. “Remember. Some people might admire you, down here. Some people might find you amusing. But no one likes you.”

*

He _thought_ he was still having visions. He thought it because sometimes he would open his eyes, and his body was lying down against the hard marble. He’d feel heavy and sluggish and stiff.

But he couldn’t be sure, because he never saw Heaven anymore, or walked in the Garden.

If he was still having the visions, they were only visions of the Cube.

He thought they were visions though, because in them, the Cube was still white and smooth. Not like it was now.

*

He’d forgotten his penitential speech. He didn’t know whether this was a joy, because he had to compose it again, or a disaster.

He tried to tell himself that it was the former, but for some reason he couldn’t stop weeping.

*

“ _AZIRAPHALE_!” God was screaming at him in fury. “ _AZIRAPHALE_!”

Aziraphale lay in the long hole he had made for his human body and reached out of it. He didn’t mind if God was angry with him. It didn’t matter, as long as She spoke to him.

*

It took a very long time to cut through bone with a calamus. He kept having to pluck out more feathers, to score through the same line, over and over again.

He was lucky the feathers grew back, really.

*

He watched the flesh rot. Aziraphale lived in a universe beyond disgust. Change, any change at all, was beautiful to him.

The foot began to die as soon as it was separated from his immortal body. Without his spirit inhabiting it, it turned back into flesh: a knobbly, bloody, bony lump of it, with the extruding veins and arteries tied off with white hairs.

Removing it had been a long, messy job, after all.

*

“Raphael!” Gabriel said, running into the lab. “Raphael, I need your help!”

“Well, it’ll have to wait,” Raphael replied. “I said to Her, all right, your Noah fellow might have all the beasts and birds, but what about bacteria? What about insects? How does She think pollination’s going to work now the water’s receding? We’re going to have to start importing insects back into the region. Gabriel, the _soil_ , you have no idea-“

“No, no, seriously, you have to help me,” Gabriel said. He pointed around at Raphael’s angels. “Out, out, all of you, go!”

“Stay. You don’t have any authority in here, Gabriel.”

“Get the hell out!” Gabriel shouted, ignoring Raphael, and the laboratory angels fled.

Raphael gritted his teeth and rolled his eyes. He used the opportunity of the empty lab to go to the vending machine. “If you’d actually be able to get rid of the Nephilim, God wouldn’t have had to resort to the Flood, and we wouldn’t be having all these problems,” he said, punching in the numbers for a packet of ambrosia. It was all the vending machine distributed, so he didn’t know why they needed to press the numbers… “My laboratory spends half its time cleaning up after your mistakes, you know.”

Gabriel went very still. “You know?”

“What?” Raphael sucked some ambrosia from a corner of the packet. “What do I know?”

“I might have. Damn. Made another mistake.”

Raphael raised an eyebrow and put the packet down. It was rare that Gabriel _admitted_ he’d made a mistake. “Go on.”

Gabriel raked a hand through his hair; it only made it look artfully tousled. Raphael hated him, sometimes. “I was just reporting to God. The Ark’s lodged on Ararat, all according to plan; She wanted to know when so She could implement the whole Spectrum Refraction upgrade. I don’t know what it was about _rainbows_ that made me think of Aziraphale, but-“

“Wait, Aziraphale? Eden Aziraphale? The one we demoted?” Raphael said. He tried to think. “His eyes changed colour a bit. I mean, not like Lagariel’s used to, but maybe that’s why.”

“It doesn’t matter why I remembered him! I just asked, you know, what we ought to be doing with him – you know, She never actually _told_ us how to deal with that whole situation-“

“Gabe, focus.”

“Yes, yes, well, She has _now_ , she said, ‘Oh, Aziraphale, I assigned him to Earth. He’s meant to be on Earth. Are you saying he’s not on Earth, Gabriel?’”

“He’s not in Heaven, so he must be…” Raphael trailed off. “He’s _not_ on Earth?”

“Of course not, I wasn’t going to let him go back down there after what he managed to fuck up last time! Whole Eden experiment completely off the rails! You know, God had the Grigori Fall for the same thing he did, but we asked Her, She didn’t want him to Fall – maybe that’s why I thought of him, given all the Nephilim clean-up-“

“Maybe God objected to all the conspiracy and murder and rape more than to the dissemination of classified technology,” Raphael said archly. “So, where’s Aziraphale?”

“I’ve been so stressed with this _scandal_ Shemhazai threw us into, and you _know_ he’s going to tell Lucifer everything he can about us, try to get special treatment for him and all his mates-“

“Gabriel! Where is he?”

“He’s probably fine. Definitely fine. But I need to send him down, and if he’s not 100%, I need you to have a look over him-“

“ _Where?_ ”

Gabriel showed him.

“Oh, _God_.” Raphael fell to his knees. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand. Gabriel leant against the marble block, legs shaking.

The marble cube was no longer a cube. It bore deep holes, and was marked here and there with strange, smooth gouges. What had once been white was now umber, marked with layers and layers of bloody letters. Flakes floated out into the corridor; the space was full of flakes of blood, of dust and hair, and feathers. So many feathers. The sudden influx of air turned something made of fabric into dust. A small pile of human bones, quite pale, was hideous in its incongruence in front of them.

Amidst it all, half-wearing what had once been a complete human body, Aziraphale stared back at them.


	4. Chapter 4

Aziraphale blinked. It was a conscious decision, and difficult to do. The blurriness of his vision shifted a little. He still couldn’t recognise the angel kneeling in front of him, but he’d recognise Gabriel if he was completely blind. He tried to drag himself backwards.

The other angel said something. Waved a… hand. Aziraphale tried to concentrate, but he’d not heard anything for such a long time – the sound was so unfamiliar, so harsh and discordant.

He blinked again, and rubbed at his eyes. Only with one hand. The other was… Raw. It hurt to move it. He tried to focus on the unrecognised angel, but his eyes slid back up to Gabriel of their own accord.

There was something he had to _do_. Pure panic was rising in his chest, strangling him. He had to do something, or… Or. Or Gabriel would. What did he have to do when Gabriel came back?

“I,” he whispered. _Yes_ , he gentled himself. _That’s a good start_. “I am sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Aziraphale,” said the other angel, and Aziraphale knew that, he knew that constellation of syllables very well. “All right. It’s all right.”

“I’m sorry. I. Thank you for the opportunity for penitence. Dereliction of duty. Let down… Let down…” He’d spat out phrases as soon as they floated across his mind, but he’d lost the second half of that one. “Let down. Penitence. I’m sorry. If you let me out, I will endeav-“ _That’s not the important part_. His mind skipped, and his body jerked. “Let me out. Let me out, let me out, let me out, letmeout _letmeout_ -“

The other angel stepped into the Cube, and Aziraphale screamed. The presence of someone else inside was devastating. Terrifying. Aziraphale was scared for himself, of course, but he was scared for the other angel too, as well as scared _of_ him. He was also scared for the _Cube_.

“It’s all going to be all right, Aziraphale,” said the other angel. He reached out a hand.

He was close enough now that Aziraphale could make out his face. Raphael. Another Archangel.

Aziraphale tried to scramble away. The last time any angel other than himself had touched him, he’d lost his wings. He was in pain, didn't they care that he was already in pain? Pain in his head like knives through his ears.

It was into this pain that Raphael plunged his hand. Aziraphale could feel the cool touch, the eyes staring at the heart of him, and there were eyes in the spaces between all of his atoms, eyes, eyes, eyes-

He had to escape. Raphael would _see_. See something. See something rotten and putrid, and then he would Fall – or worse, they would close the door again. He had only one chance, now that Raphael could see him. He knocked over the pile of his bones, and lunged desperately for the shadows in which Gabriel stood.

“Shit!” said Gabriel. He stepped back from Aziraphale, throwing up his hand, and the world exploded in pure and perfect light.

*

The total incineration of Aziraphale’s body and everything else inside the cell had given Raphael cluster headaches behind _both_ eyes, even without a corporeal form. Severed from the only thing anchoring him to any kind of calmness, Raphael had had no choice but to immure Aziraphale again, shouting at Gabriel to bring him a new body. The idiot hadn’t understood why, but he’d obeyed quickly enough. Hoping that Raphael was going to be able to save his skin.

The new body arrived on a gurney. Raphael dragged the screaming, thrashing Aziraphale into it, and sent him right down into a deep unconsciousness as soon as the angel was contained. Spirits could not sleep, but it looked like they could if tethered to a material form. Something for the records later, at least.

The hospital hadn’t been used since the War, which meant that it was blessedly private. Raphael sank his fingers into Aziraphale’s head and began to rifle. “God Almighty…”

“He’s fine, right?” Gabriel said, hovering over his shoulder.

“You thoughtless, vainglorious idiot. No, he’s not. Make yourself useful and get me some ambrosia.”

Three packets later, Raphael leant back and rubbed his metaphysical temples. “Fuck. I’ve never seen an angel driven mad before, but you, Gabriel, you have managed it! Well done!” 

Gabriel looked uncharacteristically sheepish. “When’ll he be fit to go down?"

“I know why _he’s_ insane, but the fuck’s your excuse?” Raphael hissed. “He’ll never be fit! He’ll be up here eating frankincense for the next thousand years. The _only_ way he’ll go back to the way he was is if you go to God, put your hands up, and ask Her to heal him.”

“You’re the best healer in existence, Raphael, there must be something-“

“What’s my name?”

Gabriel scrunched his face up in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘What’s my name’?”

“What’s my name. You just said it.”

“Raphael…?”

“Right. _God heals_. Not _Raphael heals_. I’m not Rapharaphael, am I? With something like this, the only way to bring about a full recovery is to somehow have made it never happen in the first place. God could do it, and I doubt She would, but… Some mistakes can’t be ignored or walked back, Gabriel. All those people who died in the Flood, their suffering didn’t make something more beautiful. They didn’t learn from it. They suffered, and then they died. That’s it.”

Gabriel looked at Aziraphale in his human body. “Unfortunately, that option’s not available to us...”

Raphael raised his eyebrows. “Because that would be _wrong_.”

“And impossible. We could keep him unconscious forever here, I suppose, but… But God wants him on Earth. Only She knows why.”

“If She wants him on Earth, you’ll need to confess and get Her to help.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Gabriel said.

“Then you’ll have to explain to Her when She asks why Aziraphale’s not on Earth.”

“There has to be something you can do! I don’t understand why you can’t heal him.”

Raphael pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hell’s bells… We’ve never had anything like this before. I’m going _completely_ on conjecture, okay? You saw what he was like, after you destroyed the physical body.”

“…screaming.” Gabriel held out his hands in confusion. “It makes no sense! We live in eternity! An angel should be able to cope with a thousand years alone like… It’s just _normal_!”

“Not in a physical body! If you’d locked him up without a body, sure, he’d probably be fine! But you didn’t. He was in a human body, which means he experienced that time as a human would.” He searched for a way to explain. “When we send angels down in the bodies, they wear them lightly. The atoms of flesh shape themselves to the spiritual essence of the angel wearing them. The body protects the angel, it allows them to move in the hostile material environment, but it can be shed painlessly. Just like humans wrap their bodies in flax or skins, we wrap our essences in flesh. To protect ourselves. But we have _never_ had someone wear a single body for so long. It looks like it’s not just the case that the body changes to fit the essence. It looks possible that, given enough time, the essence also changes to fit the body.”

Gabriel recoiled, mouth twisted in disgust. “What, seriously?”

“No, facetiously. Yes! If you embody someone for long enough they _become embodied_. That should be basic enough even for _you_ to grasp.” Raphael snapped his fingers. “See? _Grasp_. Understand. The physical affects the metaphysical, just like the metaphysical can affect the physical. The two are completely interwoven. And for Aziraphale more than anyone, thanks to _you_.”

Gabriel looked extremely uncomfortable. “So, shouldn’t a new body _help_?”

“No! His mind and his body developed together… If he were to stay in a spiritual form… With time, perhaps, he might begin to heal himself. I have no idea. My only thought would be to try to wall some of it off. Get Raziel to go in and hide as much as he can. Censor some of it. But again, anything could break through that, and we’d have _no_ way of predicting when that would happen, if it could be reversed…”

“And Raziel would know.” Gabriel visibly shuddered at the thought of the Lord of Secrets having such a sword over his head. “Not an option.”

Raphael nearly lost it. “Then go directly to God!”

“I can’t! We’re going in circles here.”

“And whose fault is that?” Raphael pressed the metaphysical heels of his metaphysical hands against his metaphysical eyes. “I might be able to do more if you hadn’t destroyed his own body.”

“That _abomination_?”

“Yes! That brain had developed along with his mind, it was more… When we go to Earth, our human bodies are equipped with certain failsafes. Like the violent discorporations – the angel’s called right back up to Heaven. Hell’s done the same with their bodies. When the body's completely destroyed – or if the angel can’t cope with the pain and shock of a particular injury, and abandons it – they’re brought right back up, automatically. We don’t fully understand human bodies yet. They have failsafes of their own. Like unconsciousness. I’d understand more about that if you hadn’t destroyed the old body.”

“Like what? God gave them failsafes that we don’t have?”

“I think so? From what I was very, very briefly able to see, Aziraphale’s brain looked different to the normal ones I’ve worked on. It had begun to _shrink_ ; the cells were different to anything I’ve seen before – thicker branches, spikes or something…"

Gabriel looked blank. Raphael imagined a spectral human brain, and held it up between his hands. “Right. So – do you see these little seahorses?” He imagined them a bright green. “These seahorses look after reason, thought, memory, spatial understanding. Think of the last. Aziraphale didn’t need a whole lot of spatial understanding, did he? So these seahorses _shrank_. To protect him, his brain made his memories less intense, made his spatial understanding less sharp. Eventually, it probably stopped making new memories too. Are you following?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. So, now, look at these little almonds.” Raphael imagined them red so that Gabriel could see them. “These do things like help humans make decisions or memories, but they also mediate certain human emotions. Like fear, or anger, or anxiety. Because Aziraphale was feeling those a lot – _a lot,_ Gabriel-“

“Yes, yes, I know, I know.”

“Because he was feeling them a lot, those little almonds worked overtime to regulate it. Got lots of practice in.”

“Well, that’s good, right?”

“Yeah, except you _THEN INCINERATED THEM_ ,” Raphael shouted, “you absolute _moron!_ ”

“Hey!”

“Because you fucking panicked at the sight of what you deemed as less that physical perfection – _that you directly caused, by the way_! – now we have an essence with a lot of emotional damage put into a new physical body which has, a. an excellent cognitive system-“

“That’s good!”

“No! It means that he’ll have a full ability to remember and comprehend just how terrible the last thousand years were! Without any numbness to soften the blow! And b. he’s now in a physical body with brain almonds that have no practice at restraining all of the _extremely_ understandable anger and fear he’s going to feel when he wakes up! And _you_ want to send him down to Earth? Immediately?!”

“Can’t you fiddle with the new brain then? Make it match the damaged one?”

“You want me to fix psychological torture with a lobotomy? Gabriel!” Raphael snapped his fingers in front of the other archangel’s face again. “Go to God! Admit you fucked up!” He looked at Aziraphale’s sleeping body and rubbed his face. “He didn’t deserve this. No one does. I should go to God right now and tell Her all of this, but I’m going to give you the chance to do the right thing yourself. You’ve made me complicit in something _horrible_. If it were up to me, we’d cut off four of _your_ wings and bust you down so low you’d be taking orders from the Ninth Rank. But God’s always liked you. Her ‘special hero’."

"You'd introduce conflict back into Heaven?" Gabriel said. "So soon after Shemhazai? And he was just one of the Watchers. You'd really try to make it Archangel against Archangel again?"

Raphael hesitated. "I’ll give you one Earth day to do the right thing, and then I’m telling Her myself.” But he had hesitated.

*

Something bright and strong reached down into the kind darkness and pulled Aziraphale up into the light. A hand as strong as iron was clamped across his mouth, and he could _feel it_ – could feel pain and sensation like he hadn’t been able to for so long. The shriek was building even before he blinked and Gabriel sharpened into focus.

“Don’t make a sound,” Gabriel hissed down at him, and shook Aziraphale’s jaw for emphasis. “Don’t you dare.”

Aziraphale swallowed the scream. Gabriel removed his hand.

“Good. Up. Sit up.” Gabriel looked away from him, and then yanked him up.

He was sitting on metal. Not marble. The room was large – large enough that the corners were shadowed. Aziraphale tried to curl up and hide from the overwhelming space, but Gabriel didn’t let him.

Aziraphale looked down. His foot was there, perfectly whole. His left hand was clothed in skin. He couldn’t see a hole in his abdomen because he was clothed in a pure white robe, edged with curling gold embroidery. He relaxed. A vision. He was having another vision, obviously. The door opening was an old vision, but Raphael had been new.

“I… I had a speech,” he said to Gabriel.

“You’ve already given it, buddy! It was great,” Gabriel said with a wide smile. “Really repentant, you did swell. Stand up, come on.”

“I gave it?” This had never happened in a vision before. The robe felt… it _felt_. He could _feel it._ Panic rose in his throat, threatening to choke him. The growing pain in his head was _blinding_. The entire world felt sharp, like the edge of a knife. Like the edge of a sword. “No, no, what- Please, please, please don’t-“

“Shut up, and I won’t need to do anything!” Gabriel hissed, and looked over his shoulder at something again. He gripped Aziraphale’s arm, bruising tight, and the cosmos twisted around them.

Gabriel and Aziraphale stood alone, somewhere on the physical plane. Aziraphale’s new lungs filled with icy air for the first time, and the wind whipped the new robe around him. Below them was white. Above them was blue.

Aziraphale did scream then. The vastness of the space around them made the last room look like… Like. He didn’t have the words. He didn’t have the capacity to articulate what he saw, what he felt. All he could do was reach out a hand, find no resistance, and _scream_.

Gabriel slapped him and the screaming stopped. It was rather a relief. The pain was clarifying; clarifying pain was familiar. Aziraphale closed his eyes and leant into it. Pain was warm, and understandable.

“Aziraphale. Are you done? I need you to be done.”

Aziraphale nodded, eyes still closed. Under his feet, the ground was as hard as the marble had been, but so much colder. Slippery. The cold climbed up through his feet. “What…?”

“Snow. Packed snow. You know the stuff on top of mountains? It’s everywhere, here,” said Gabriel. “This is the South Pole. It’s the bottom of the sphere.”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around himself, and lifted one foot to give it a moment’s respite. “It’s so cold.”

“Yeah, well noticed, genius,” Gabriel said. “Quit whining, we’re only going to be here for a minute. Open your eyes. Oi! Open your eyes! Good. Look around. Commit it to memory. Not that it’s hard: snow, cold, big sky. And now…”

Gabriel gripped Aziraphale’s upper arm, and with a dizzying jerk of space around them, they were standing on a rocky shore. The clouds overhead were thick and dark; the sea was slashed open with foam, marked all over with jagged mountains of heaving water. Vast lumps of ice littered land and sea alike.

Everywhere Aziraphale looked there were birds. They were black, sleek, and huddled together.

“These are penguins,” Gabriel said. The boredom in his voice was underlain by something desperate. “They swim, don’t fly, eat fish. Got it? This is the shore of the continent, it’ll be called Antarctica, and if anyone asks, this is where you’ve been posted for the last thousand years.”

“But…” Aziraphale was shaking, and not only due to the freezing temperatures. “But that’d be _lying_. I was in the Cube…”

“And if you feel the need to share that, you’ll be back there like _that_ ,” Gabriel said. “Oi! Are you listening, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes!”

“If anyone asks you, where have you been?”

“At the South Pole, with the- the penguins!”

“No! There’s nothing _at_ the South Pole, the penguins are on the shore! So you’ve been all over the continent, right?”

“Yes, yes! I’m sorry! I’ve been at the South Pole _and_ with the penguins?”

“That’s better. _Anyone_ asks, this is where you’ve been. Any angels. God Herself. You got me? Or it’ll be another thousand years in the box.”

“I’ve been here!” Aziraphale shouted so loudly a few of the penguins made a noise of protest. He looked up at Gabriel and nodded. “Right here, all the time!”

“That’s right.” Gabriel grabbed Aziraphale’s hand. “Stop shaking this!”

“I can’t!”

Gabriel shoved a gold ring onto Aziraphale’s smallest finger. “You’ve been promoted, congratulations. You’re a Principality now.” Gabriel pointed his finger at Aziraphale’s face, right between his eyes. “That means you can’t be pressed into service by anyone else; anyone tries, you tell them to go ask some of the lower ranks. You don’t take orders from anyone below the Archangels. You report to _me_. And _only_ to me. Anyone else talks to you, where have you been?”

“The… the continent with the South Pole.”

“Exactly. Great. You’ll be great, Aziraphale.” Gabriel’s teeth were whiter than the snow. “Because if you’re not, I’ll hate to put you back in the box, when we’ve just cleaned up the mess you made of it. Understood?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” Aziraphale said. He wanted to drop to his knees, but that might be idolatry – he bent over instead, as far as he could.

“Stand up. You look ridiculous.” Gabriel grabbed his arm again.

This time, the air was heavy and wet as soon as they materialised. Aziraphale hadn’t been warm since the Garden of Eden, and he nearly fell over, overwhelmed by the sensation. The air tasted of water; all around them were tall reeds, up to their shoulders. They stood on a small island, with jade-coloured water all around, and the sun blazing hot above.

In front of them, an angel with gold eyes and golden hair stood to attention and saluted.

Aziraphale barely noticed him. He was entranced by the reeds. They waved, their colours shifting. But they were all green. Lighter, darker, but _green_ – bright, living green, such as he hadn’t seen outside of the visions or his faded memories for a thousand years.

He began to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to @ileolai for pointing out that my characterisation of Raphael is basically just Frank Grimes, lmao.


	5. Chapter 5

Neumiel landed so quickly on the marsh island that her knee-length black plait whipped across Zahabiel’s head. Not that he minded. He smiled up at her. “How are they?”

“Unimpressed by how long it’s taking for the waters to recede. They’ve been in there nearly a year, with only each other to talk to, so it’s understandable if they’re a bit stir-crazy…” She nodded towards the figure lying on his front at the far end of the marsh island. “From the air I thought he was a Nephil.”

Zahabiel looked pointedly at her sword. “Yeah, I can see why.” The wool-haired figure didn’t stir. Zahabiel beckoned Neumiel down. “It’s _Aziraphale_.”

“ _Eden_ Aziraphale?”

“The one and only.”

“I knew I’d seen that hair before…”

“I’m surprised you were able to see anything,” said Zahabiel, “up in the sticks with the Virtues.”

“I saw more than I wanted to. I don’t know how all of you managed to stay so stone-faced down near the Pit. And he was one of you…”

“He’s been promoted to Principality again. Gabriel says he’s been at the South Pole for the last millennium.” Zahabiel shrugged. “He’s being trusted around humans again. No idea why. He cried for a few hours and he’s just been lying there ever since.”

Several emotions warred on Neumiel’s face. “Did Gabriel say anything about me?”

“He was in a rush. Surely another angel stationed here means it’s not too far off, though?”

Neumiel shook her head. “Not if I’ve got to train _Eden Aziraphale_.”

Zahabiel snorted. “Fair point. Assuming his brainpower was divided equally between four heads, he’s only operating on one quarter.”

“God knows how long I'll be down here. You should go back up without me.”

“Nope.” Zahabiel interlaced his fingers with Neumiel’s; he could feel her tiredness, leaden and fizzing under the skin of her corporation. “I said I’d stay down here as long as you were stationed here.”

“And how long ago was that? Nearly three hundred years.” Neumiel pressed her palm to his, and Zahabiel felt her old guilt. “If you hadn’t been here-“

“No.”

“If I’d been able to kill Crawly without your help, you’d never have been here when Shemhazai came down – you’d never have been questioned by Raziel-“

“I had nothing to hide. Neither did you. I told you. It was worth it.” Zahabiel smiled and kissed her hand. “The location might be rubbish, but here I get to do two of my favourite things. Kill Crawly, and hang out with you.”

“I can’t believe _Crawly_ comes first,” Neumiel said, finally showing her beautiful teeth in a wide smile.

Zahabiel grinned back. “Oh, I’m always thinking about Crawly before anyone else.”

“Gross.”

“What about you – oh my Lord, do you _want_ me to go now that Eden Aziraphale’s here?” Zahabiel gave Neumiel a gentle shove. “That’s why you think I should go up without you? So you can have Eden Aziraphale all to yourself?”

Neumiel rolled her eyes and stood up. “You’re so disgusting. Come on.”

*

Aziraphale moved his fingers through the surface of the water. It played across his skin, cool and full of light. It glittered. He hadn’t seen something glittering since the waterfall in Eden. The earth beneath him was all grass and reeds – he could feel the life in it. He could have lain there forever.

He tried a few times, to think about the Cube. His brain shied away from it. His thoughts slid off it. He gave up trying. Why think about that, when the water was before him?

“Aziraphale.”

A new voice, but he was used to ignoring them.

“He doesn’t respond to his name. Oi!”

Aziraphale scrambled up then; a masculine voice, shot with anger. Not Gabriel. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes until the glitter of the water was mirrored in the darkness, and then opened them again. Gold hair, gold skin, gold eyes. Zahabiel.

Next to him was a lithe angel with a long, swinging plait. “Hey, Aziraphale…” she said, and raised her hand to move it through the air in front of him. The setting sun sent fire through her black hair. Orange – another colour he hadn’t seen in so very long. And her brown skin wasn’t the brown of dried blood; it was lit by a soft glow from within, as silvery and smooth as driftwood.

Hers was the first smile he had seen in over a thousand years.

“I’m Neumiel.”

Aziraphale gripped his hands in front of him and leant forwards. He swayed slightly. “I’m Aziraphale.”

“Yes, we know… Must be very different to what you’re used to?”

Aziraphale swallowed and nodded. “Yes. Yes, very. Um. There is… Um. I haven’t seen any birds. Any animals, in fact. Only some fish.”

“Oh, right, yeah. They’ll be back soon. The waters are receding properly now, we’ll be able to move west again in a few days.”

“The waters?”

Neumiel looked at him oddly. “The Floodwaters…”

Aziraphale looked between them. “What's 'Flood'?”

Day darkened into night. It was the first night he'd had seen in so very long; the blackness was as thick as velvet, stars scattered across it like a billion diamonds, and the air was balmy. Aziraphale sat on the small marsh-island, hugging his knees. The first night in so long, and a _beautiful_ night, and all he wanted to do was weep. “She wouldn’t do that. How could She have done that?”

“You can’t question the Almighty.”

“Leave him be,” said Neumiel. “If I’m being honest I have to admit I… But you didn’t see what the Nephilim were like, Aziraphale. Their appetites were monstrous. They ate everything in sight, and when the food ran out, they started to eat humans. Then each other. Drinking blood. And the humans, the Grigori taught them the things they were meant to learn for themselves. Writing, medicine. Magic. We couldn’t fight against the humans, with what they knew, let alone the Nephilim. It was the only way.”

“But some of them were innocent! Surely not _all_ of them had sinned?”

“Enough. The Flood covered everywhere the Nephilim had spread to. Now it’s just Noah and his family…”

“But,” said Zahabiel. “You should leave them to us for a while. A lot of the Nephilim looked just like you. Light eyes, light skin, curly white hair. You’re much smaller, obviously.” Unlike Neumiel’s sad expression, Zahabiel looked suspicious. “You really didn’t know any of this?”

“No. None of it.”

“Only, we were told Raziel interrogated everyone who’d been on Earth all the time. And the South Pole is still on Earth, last time I checked.”

Aziraphale panicked. “I was. Just. Um. Just on my own. Here. At the Pole, I mean.”

“Why? We were all interrogated Upstairs, in front of everyone. Why were you different?”

“Leave him be, Zahabiel,” Neumiel said softly. “He didn’t know about any of this. Maybe they meant they were only interrogating those of us who’d been in the area.”

“Right,” Zahabiel said. “Maybe.”

*

It was two days before Raphael descended to Earth. Zahabiel and Neumiel stood to attention, and Raphael waved them down. “I’m here to check in on Aziraphale – could you give us a little privacy?”

Even without touching, Aziraphale could feel the suspicion roiling off Zahabiel. He wrung his hands, eyes trained on the ground as Raphael led him away with a hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t stop himself from shaking.

“Aziraphale,” Raphael said gently, and Aziraphale started. “I’m sorry it took me so long to find you. Gabriel wouldn’t tell me where you were; I had to call in a favour in Earth Surveillance…”

“I was at the South Pole,” Aziraphale said. He thought he could remember Raphael in the Cube, before there was a wave of fire that washed the flesh from his bones. He was sure it had been Raphael… But it could have been a vision. “Now I’m here.”

“No. I was there, when we took you out of that… cell. You don’t need to lie to me.”

“It’s not a lie,” Aziraphale lied. “I was, I was at the South Pole.”

“That’s what the records say… Look, Aziraphale,” said Raphael, and Aziraphale dared a glance at the Archangel, thinking it was an order. “Gabriel wants this to be hushed up, and I’m not going to stick my neck out if you testify that you were here all that time. So, just… forget whatever Gabriel told you to say for a second. You don’t need to be loyal to him.”

Loyalty… Aziraphale almost laughed. He studied Raphael’s gold-sandalled feet. As though it was loyalty that made him lie, instead of terror. If Gabriel had been able to create the Cube, he’d be able to hide one as well. This time no one would ever find him.

“I was at the South Pole.”

Raphael sighed. “Right. Well. Neumiel and Zahabiel are going west, to the Ark. They’ve suggested you stay out of the way for a while. Do you want to return to Heaven with me?”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“It’s all right. You’d be working in my lab, not under Gabriel.”

“No. Thank you.” Raphael might seem kind now, in his awkward way, but… All the Archangels had taken his heads and his wings. He tried to parse through what Raphael was saying. Gabriel was trying to hide what he’d done to Aziraphale? Was that why he’d threatened him into keeping silent about where he had been?

There was a blinding pain between his eyes. All he knew was that he didn't want to return to Heaven. “I’d like to stay here, please,” he said falteringly. “If that’s all right.”

“Really? I can’t stand it myself. Don’t you find it all heavy?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I like it. All the colours. The warmth – the warmth, and then how cool the water is. The life. The softness. It’s so beautiful.”

“Hmm. I suppose you spent a while in Eden, before all the Unpleasantness. I was out-voted on that, by the way,” Raphael said. “I thought we should do the procedures in private, as a kindness, but Gabriel and Michael thought it was important to let everyone witness the consequences.”

Aziraphale’s gaze skittered across the grass. Raphael was silent, waiting for a response. “Thank you?”

“That’s all right. As I said, I was out-voted. But I did try.” Raphael was quiet for another long moment, but Aziraphale was used to silence. “Well. If you’re sure.”

Aziraphale watched as he flew away. He _wasn’t_ sure. He wasn’t even sure precisely what Raphael had been asking him. The only thing of which he was sure was that Gabriel had threatened to put him back into the Cube. That was the only certainty in his world now.

*

Crawly was pissed off. Five years in the torture pits, and then five times that in the complaints department (writing up, printing out and distributing quotes of the day from tormented sinners), then when he’d finally got back up to Earth, his entire area of operations had been flooded. Nothing left but bloated corpses.

It had been windy since he’d come back up, presumably to help the earth dry up more quickly, but today, _apparently_ , the earth was plenty dry already, because the wind was carrying what felt like all the sand in the universe with it. Crawly had wrapped a scarf around his face and was using magic besides, and he could still feel sand coating the inside of his throat, the grains shifting in his lungs.

If he could find a cave of some kind… All the buildings of the area had been washed away in the Flood, but the effort to protect himself from the storm was exhausting, and he needed to find shelter.

But he knew he was in completely the wrong area for caves. Fuck.

Between the sandstorm and the scarf, he only noticed the person approaching him when he was a few cubits away. The stranger had wrapped white linen all around himself, just as Crawly had done, and talking would be useless given the sound of the wind. But his gestures were universal, and Crawly followed him.

The stranger led him to a hide tent. He held one of the flaps up, and as soon as Crawly ducked through he felt his ears pop.

Only now did he realise that the tent wasn’t flapping – fuck, with the strength of the shamal, no tent should have been able to stay pitched. The sides were perfectly still. Outside the storm roared, but within everything was quiet and calm.

Crawly ripped his scarf off and swallowed down a deep breath of clean air. “Fuck!”

“Language, please,” said the stranger, unwinding his own scarf.

White hair, white skin. Eyes the colour of a shallow sea, as bright as stars. The light poured off him.

Crawly pulled his sword from his belt.

The angel waved his hands. “Oh, there’s no need for that! It’s all right. I won’t hurt you – I’m not one of the Nephilim, if that’s what you’re worried about. You can wait out the storm in here and go on your way.”

Crawly didn’t lower the sword. “You shitting me?”

“I most certainly am not!” The angel sat down on the ground. “What a thought. What an _image_.”

Crawly tried to think in the face of this unexpected lack of attack. He should run. Exhausted as he was, there was no way he could take on an angel. “What’s your game?”

The angel looked up at him. “It’s not a game. I just saw you in the distance and I thought… Rather horrible weather to be out in. Once it started up, I conjured this tent. It seemed simpler to enchant one object, rather than try to outrun it or endure it.”

Crawly took a step forward; the angel went cross-eyed, focusing on the tip of the blade. Could it be possible that this angel… didn’t _know_? “I’m a demon, so, forgive me for not believing an angel’s going to offer me shelter out of the _goodness of his heart_.”

“Surely that’s exactly why an angel should be offering anybody shelter?” said the angel.

“Ever _met_ any angels?”

“Well, yes. Obviously. Rather a lot.”

Crawly rolled his eyes, and lowered the sword. “You do realise that now you’ve invited me in, I’m your guest, right? That means you can’t hurt me. Big sin against the laws of hospitality, that. Very naughty.”

“Yes, I’m aware. _I’m_ not the one waving a sword about,” said the angel. An uncomfortable expression flashed across his face. “Look, I could feel how tired and miserable you felt, so… I thought that even a demon might… Might obey the laws of hospitality in return. You’re the only other being I’ve seen since… So. We can just sit in silence, if you prefer-“

Crawly sat down with a _thump_. His eyes were wide. “You knew I was a demon when you invited me in?”

“Of course. I mean, no offence intended, but you certainly don’t feel like an _angel_.” The angel shuddered; Crawly knew with a stab through the heart that he greatly resented that the angel’s wings would be rustling.

The confusing bastard. “And you thought you’d just risk it?”

The angel shrugged. “I suppose it _was_ rather impulsive. It could certainly be argued that it's one of my flaws… A flaw of which I should be penitent, so if you kill me, I suppose it’s no more than I’m due. But I’d really rather you didn’t. I like it here.”

Crawly snorted. “In the middle of a sandstorm, with a demon?”

The angel smiled, and it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “I meant on Earth, but yes, even this. It’s _interesting_ at least, isn’t it?”

Crawly’s smile slowly widened into a grin. “And Heaven’s boring as fuck.”

“Language, _please_. I don’t know what that word means but I know it’s rude,” said the angel. “Oh, speaking of rudeness, I apologise for mine. My name’s Aziraphale.”

Crawly _knew_ that name. It echoed through his memories – he remembered dozing on a lovely warm branch and being rudely awoken by that name being shouted. _“Aziraphale!”_ the Archangel Michael had shouted, asking why the angel had not been at his post: the same angel that sat in front of him, with white lamb-curls and the anxious disposition, only then he’d been hiding a plum behind his back. “The angel with the plum! And the flaming sword - you were in Eden!”

Aziraphale looked surprised. “I was! I was. A long time ago now… How do you know that?”

Crawly pointed to his chest in surprised delight. “I was there too! I mean, I spent most of the time as a snake then – Crawly, I’m Crawly, the serpent!”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Oh, no.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale looking like one of the Nephilim comes from Chapter 105:2-3 of Enoch, in which Noah is born:
> 
> _She became pregnant by him, and brought forth a child, the flesh of which was as white as snow, and red as a rose; the hair of whose head was white like wool, and long; and whose eyes were beautiful. When he opened them, he illuminated all the house, like the sun; the whole house abounded with light._
> 
> _And when he was taken from the hand of the midwife, opening also his mouth, he spoke to the Lord of righteousness. Then Lamech his father was afraid of him; and flying away came to his own father Methusalah, and said, I have begotten a son, unlike to other children. He is not human; but, resembling the offspring of the angels of heaven, is of a different nature from ours, being altogether unlike to us._
> 
> "I was out-voted" was completely nicked from _Knives Out_ , which was amazing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone - I have such limited Internet, just uploading this took a phone and two memory sticks - so I will respond to comments starting on Monday, and if you see any mistakes or typos, please let me know! <3

“What do you mean, _oh no_?” Crawly said hungrily. Was his reputation really so fearsome in Heaven? He preened. “I suppose when you bring about the Fall of Humanity…”

The angel – _Aziraphale_ – had stood up and was pacing back and forth suddenly. It was a large tent, with three central poles, the kind that served as the centre of a settlement. But Aziraphale stopped a good few cubits short when he walked from right to left, as though he was coming up against a wall invisible to Crawly. “No – well, yes, obviously – but I… It doesn’t matter. You were only doing your job, after all?”

Crawly shrugged. “I was just told to get up there and make some trouble.”

“Right. Yes.” Aziraphale nodded. “Yes... You were only acting according to your nature.”

Crawly knew he ought to be interested in this strange reaction, but instead his lips were curling. “What d’you mean, _according to my nature_?”

“Your demonic nature. To cause pain and suffering,” the angel said matter-of-factly. Crawly had noticed that he had a strange habit of looking away at something, and then returning to the conversation with a jolt, as though suddenly remembering where he was. “That’s all you’re capable of, so I can’t _blame_ you, in good conscience… No.”

Crawly pressed one finger to his nostril, and blew a pellet of sand and snot onto the ground.

“ _Please_.”

“Sorry. Just my demonic nature. Can’t change it,” Crawly said.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “It’s better if you _choose_ to be awful, then?”

“Not better. Just the reality. Take this tent. If we’re going by natures, was it your angelic nature that made you offer me shelter?”

“I suppose so.”

“Ah, ah,” Crawly said, and wagged his finger. “Now, I know that _most_ angels – are Zahabiel and Neumiel still on Earth? – if they’d left the tent, it’d just be to smite the living daylights out of me. So, does that mean you’re not an angel?”

“It means you’re a demon, and _demons_ ," said Aziraphale, "are liars.”

Crawly tugged at his hair. “Fine. I’m a liar.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, and then narrowed his eyes. Crawly burst into laughter at the sight of his face, and the angel smiled back sheepishly. “I suppose you have me there.”

“I sure do. It’s all propaganda, angel. All that talk of angelic and demonic natures. It’s bullshit – bullshit the Higher Ups and Lower Downs pedal to keep the rest of us in line. We’ve got the ability to make choices, just like the humans. You chose to let me in here rather than smite me, and I chose to _not_ lop your head off with my sword.”

Aziraphale sat down again. Unlike Crawly’s relaxed drop, it was a careful movement; Aziraphale’s eyes were intent on Crawly’s face. His mouth twisted oddly. “Yes… Yes. Thank you, I mean.”

“No problem.”

“But…” Aziraphale was frowning. “What if you _should_ cut my head off? What if that’s the right thing to do?”

Crawly leant forward. “Are you genuinely insane? Not rhetorically insane. Are you a sincere lunatic?”

“Not you then, but- what if someone else, what if cutting off my head _was_ the right thing to do in another situation?”

“Yeah, no,” said Crawly. “We demons tend to acknowledge that cutting someone’s head off is a Bad Thing. I mean, it can be _fun_ , but it’s still bad.”

“But…” Aziraphale rubbed at his forehead. “Crawly, could we just… My head hurts.”

Crawly laughed again. “More thinking than you’re used to?”

“Yes. Precisely.”

“Idiot.” Crawly was surprised by an unfamiliar note in his voice. It wasn’t contempt, that he knew. It tasted different in the mouth. An odd, soft… happiness? Less than happiness, perhaps. Maybe just amusement.

“It has been said. It’s certainly more conversation than I’m used to.”

“New to Earth?”

“Oh. Um. No. No, no – I’ve been on Earth. All this time. But I’ve been at the South Pole, and it’s only the penguins there. They’re even worse conversationalists than I am.”

“Kind of fish, isn’t it?”

“No – it swims, instead of flying – but it’s a bird.”

“If it swims instead of flying, that’s a fish.”

“So, we’re birds?” Aziraphale asked, and something new glittered in his eyes.

Crawly grinned. Well, well, well. “You’re a bird. I’m a liar, remember?”

“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale smiled back at him. “Rather too reasonable a liar.”

“All the best liars are. Outlandish lies are much more suspect.”

“You’ll make my head hurt again. I can’t keep up. I’m out of practice… if I ever was in practice.”

“For a novice you’re holding your own,” Crawly admitted. “I’ll have pity. How’s that for demonic nature?”

Aziraphale held up his hands in surrender, and Crawly leant back against one of the tent-poles smugly.

That’s when he felt it: the sudden surge in power around him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Suddenly the air was full of the smell before a lightning strike. Oh, he’d been a _fucking idiot_. For a moment, he’d _actually believed_ that an angel might have some decency in it, that someone might- could show him kindness. “You cunning _basstard_ ,” he hissed, and the angel had the gall to look surprised when Crawly beheaded him.

The flax-tufted head fell to the ground, but Crawly didn’t have the time to look; Zahabiel was already in the tent. Crawly’s sword burnt white-hot and Crawly dropped it. That was fine. Angels tended to be better than him with swords, and he didn’t need one. He knew how to deal with Zahabiel.

He leapt for Neumiel, transforming mid-strike – his fingers became poison-tipped claws, and he held the tips against the skin of her throat. “Back off!”

The hostage-taking didn’t work for a simple and unexpected reason. Zahabiel wasn’t looking at them.

Neumiel and Crawly both turned their heads to see what Zahabiel was looking at.

Aziraphale- Aziraphale’s _body_ was on its hands and knees. It patted the ground hesitantly until it found its head, and then sat back cross-legged. It raised the head and lowered it onto the bloody stump of its neck.

Crawly felt the prickle in the air of angelic miracles. The head – Aziraphale’s head – moved its jaw back and forth. Its eyes stretched open, and it – he – looked up and down, left and right. Aziraphale blinked, and rubbed his healed neck, and looked right at Crawly. “That really stung!”

*

As soon as Aziraphale had mentally connected himself to his physical eyes again, the head of his spirit form seeping back into its physical container, he saw two things happen in quick succession.

The first was that Crawly ripped Neumiel’s throat out of her neck in a welter of torn tissue and blood. The second was that Zahabiel roared in fury; a sword, flameless, appeared in his hand, and he brought it down in inexorable, unavoidable force; as though the world had been slowed on its axis, Aziraphale saw Crawly’s collar-bone splinter, heard the deafening _crikcrikcrikcrikcrik_ as the sword passed down through his torso, snapping his ribs.

Crawly’s body was dead before the sword emerged from his body by his hip. Inside the tent two rushes of wind made the sides flap violently; one sweeping up with a smell of ozone, one sweeping down with a stink of sulphur.

Zahabiel’s chest heaved. His sword winked back into non-existence.

“Why-?” Aziraphale said. He had no problem with blood, of course, but the _speed_ at which everything had changed had unmoored him. The Cube flashed around him like sheet lightning. “Why would you-?”

“I felt him in the area. _Neumiel_ thought we should help you,” Zahabiel snarled. “She thought you were stalling him. Waiting for us.”

“There was no need to kill him,” Aziraphale said. He rubbed his neck. “What _happened?_ It was all so fast-“

“He beheaded you. He attacked first.”

“But…” But the demon had been so… personable. Civil. “That doesn’t make any sense… He had the chance to discorporate me earlier, and he didn’t. Why would he…?”

“He was _toying_ with you, you idiot. Probably trying to get some intelligence out of you. Fat chance of that...” Zahabiel tore his eyes away from Neumiel’s body. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Put your fucking head back on!” Zahabiel shouted.

“You mean… you can’t?” Aziraphale said.

“Of course I can’t! Beheading discorporates you!”

“Why?” Aziraphale frowned in thought, but his eyes kept being drawn to Crawly’s body. “Um. Our bodies are just containers, aren’t they? I just… pulled my head back in and reattached the human one.”

“A beheading usually kills you,” Zahabiel said, as though Aziraphale was a fool. Outside the sandstorm raged on.

Aziraphale suddenly felt a strange and unfamiliar emotion, boiling in his nose and the back of his throat. He’d felt it a great deal, when he’d first been put in the Cube – again, his mind shied away from the thought, slid off it, like water off a duck’s back – but it had become more and more rare. _Anger._ Zahabiel might outrank him now, but once they’d been equals.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Not in my experience.”

Horror slowly dawned on Zahabiel’s face, followed by ice. He reached down to pick up Neumiel’s body and tenderly cradled it against his broad chest. “I was only down here to look after her. You’re on your own until they assign you someone else down here. If they do. I’m going to tell them about this!”

“Wait!” Aziraphale said, and his fear snuffed the anger out like water on a candle-flame. “What am I supposed to do here?”

“Guard the humans. Protect them from demonic wiles. Help them to make good choices. You know,” Zahabiel said with venom, “everything you failed to do in Eden.”

Zahabiel took off despite the storm, all four of his wings beating furiously in the wind. Aziraphale rubbed his last remaining neck, and looked at Crawly’s corpse. Its russet hair was now the same colour as the rapidly clotting blood; soon it would be much lighter. Its yellow eyes were wide open. When they had been _his_ eyes, instead of _its_ eyes, they’d seemed so much brighter. They’d gleamed.

As soon as the storm abated, Aziraphale vanished the tent, and buried Crawly’s body. Then he began his journey west.

*

“It wasn’t my fault,” Crawly said before Hastur or Ligur could say a word. “There were three of them! It was a bloody ambush!”

“One would have thought you’d be able to identify an angel by now, Crawly.”

“I can, your Lowness, I can,” Crawly said. “I thought this one was different – stupid, yes, I know – he seemed like an idiot, brand new to the job. Turns out he was just stalling until his mates could turn up.”

“None of this is helping your case, you know,” Ligur remarked casually.

“But listen. I beheaded him before the other two arrived. Then.” Crawly paused for effect. “He reattached his head.”

The only sound was the dripping of the pipes. “He what?” said Hastur.

“He picked up his head, shoved it on his neck, and miracled it back on. Took him a second, and then he was looking around, speaking, just like before. And the other two were just as shocked as I was.”

“He wasn’t discorporated?” Ligur asked, finally sitting down instead of lurking in the corner.

“Nope. Like I said. He was groping around for the fucking head!”

“Heaven’s found a way to prevent discorporations?” Hastur inhaled, a growl in the back of his throat.

“If they have, they didn’t tell Zahabiel, and he’s pretty high up the pecking order.”

“We need more information. Luckily for you, Crawly, some fool buried your body instead of incinerating it, so we can recycle most of the atoms for a new corporation.”

“Urgh.”

“Oh, unless you’d like to wait for a new one?” Hastur said, with an unpleasant smile.

“Oh, no, no, no. That was an ‘urgh’ of approval. Nice and nasty, you know?” Crawly leant across the table. “I won’t let you down.”

“Really?” Ligur sounded sceptical. “A thousand years ago, you told us you had intelligence that one of the cherubim might be willing to give away classified technology. You still don’t even have a _name_ for us to contact.”

“I’m working on it!”

“How?” Ligur snarled.

“I’m asking around, you know – no judgement, but most other demons can’t pass for human as well as I can. In fact… Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone,” Crawly said, thinking fast. “That new bastard tricked me. I know his name, know what he looks like. Give me one more chance, and if I can’t manage it, I’ll tell you. If I can’t discorporate him, then… Maybe I can trick him. Deceit for deceit, or blood for blood. One or the other. I’ll find out about the not-discorporation, and I’ll find out who gave away the sword. I just need some time.”

“One more chance, Crawly. One, and that’s only because we’ve already got most of a body. If I see you down here any time in the next five hundred years, you’ll be down here for the rest of eternity. Capisce?”

“Completely. Utterly and entirely capisced,” Crawly said, bowing low as he backed out of the office. As soon as he was out of Hastur and Ligur’s eyeline he made a run for it. Normally running in Hell’s corridors was a bad idea – everyone there was immortal, after all, and everyone knew that you never run from anything immortal – Crawly had no wish to receive any of the denizen’s tender attentions. In this case, though, Hastur and Ligur changing their minds was a bigger risk.

Who the fuck had buried his body? The only person he could think of was… Aziraphale. But that made no sense. Angels always incinerated him so that Hell couldn’t, urgh, _recycle the material_.

There had to be someone else. Someone from the east? But they would have had to have been fast if Hastur already knew the corporation was sinking downwards. Freshly killed, freshly buried. That was how Hell got most of the material for new corporations. As freshly buried as possible… Someone in a coma and buried alive was best, of course. Most demons weren’t exactly brilliant at restoring flesh to even a vaguely wearable form, after all.

And yet Aziraphale had reattached his own head as easily as pulling a tunic on. Zahabiel had looked as disturbed as he’d felt; he’d felt Neumiel’s fear and disgust through their touching skin.

Damn Aziraphale. Bloody Aziraphale.

And despite himself, Crawly found a kind of dark glee blooming in the pit of his stomach. An angel who lied? Who could hold a conversation? _So_ much more fun that some arsehole who smote on sight. Maybe he’d found an interesting opponent at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The invisible wall is a reference to Stefan Zweig's Chess novella, which I heartily recommend!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe so many of you replies from a chapter ago, I'm so sorry! I'm absolutely buried under work, and I wanted to get this chapter posted before I disappeared for a few more days of academic writing. I'll reply to all when I get back! <3
> 
> There are some more emotionally horny moments on the way (I'm so excited to post some of them, you have no idea), but this chapter's more groundwork-laying again.

Mount Ararat was formed of two cones, and both were covered in snow. Aziraphale recognised it from the South Pole. They blazed like lightning in the bright sunlight, marred only by the tar-covered ark wedged onto the higher cone.

Zahabiel and Neumiel had said that the humans wouldn’t accept him, with his Nephil-colouring, so Aziraphale was anxious when he approached the settlement in the shadow of the mountains. What they had neglected to mention was that Noah shared it; he stood out easily, a white stick among the rich colours of his family, with wiry white hair around his head in a halo and a beard to match. They were suspicious of Aziraphale at first, but the fact that he wasn’t immediately slaughtering them all went a good way to assuaging their worries.

They offered him a clay cup with a foamy liquid in it. “No, no, I don’t need…” he tried to tell Naamah, who tutted, and pressed it back into his hands. “Oh, all right…”

The liquid felt strange in his mouth; suddenly a new sensation shot through his head like electricity. He tried to spit the liquid out. Instead some of it went down into his lungs, feeling _wrong_ and _painful_ ; Noah roared with laughter and slapped him on the back. Aziraphale flinched, but his body was strangely grateful for the violence. His diaphragm jerked up and down, and he made a horrible animal noise.

“Slower, slower!” Naamah said. “Have you never drunk beer before?”

“I’ve never drunk _anything_ before!” Aziraphale said when he could speak, and Noah laughed again.

After another attempt, he managed to drink the liquid – the _beer_ – it was thick, grainy, slightly bitter, and rather unpleasant. He thanked them for it, and said that he would give himself time to recover before he tried food. He vaguely wondered how he would get out of that one.

The humans admired Crawly’s sword, and the way the bronze glittered in the sunlight. It was so much more beautiful than _their_ old sword, Shem said covetously, and showed Aziraphale an ancient weapon with a nocked iron blade.

Aziraphale felt ice wrap around his corporation. He cleared his throat gently. “May I?” he croaked, and exchanged Crawly’s for the humans’ sword.

It fit so perfectly in his hand. As though God Herself had made it for him. He needed only to think – not even _think_ , less than that – he needed only to turn his hand like _so_ and it would burn with bright, holy flame.

It shook in his hand.

“Do you want to swap?” Shem was saying.

“Don’t be silly, darling – of course Aziraphale doesn’t want this old thing for his shiny new one,” his wife Sedeqetelebab said.

Aziraphale came back to himself. He wasn’t close to tears; he thought that he had never been so far from tears in his entire existence. He felt like the snow on the peaks of Ararat. “It doesn’t shine as brightly, but a little elbow grease will soon sort that…” he said.

He turned it so that the blade balanced across his index finger, the hilt towards Shem. More caution than the blade deserved, given the wretched state of its edge, he thought. It had been neglected. It had been abused. But it was still perfectly balanced, for all that – the thin tang paired with the heavy pommel. You could wrap your off-hand comfortably around that pommel for a two-handed strike from above, but it was more comfortable to wield it with just one. You sacrificed some strength for versatility, but you didn’t need too much strength to stab someone, after all, with a well-cared-for blade. The skin of their human corporations would break under just a pound of weight, applied with a point such as this sword should have…

“I just, um. Forgive me,” he said, and swallowed again. His voice was curiously high-pitched to his own ears, and as Shem took it reluctantly back, he felt cold fire on his shoulders and across the back of his neck, and in twin streaks down his back. He felt light with loss, and heavy with it. “The metal is different. This shines brighter. But yours is stronger. Don’t be deceived by glitter. True strength isn’t always bright. Sometimes it hides in beaten old things.”

“Exactly!” said Noah. “So you respect your old man, eh?”

*

Aziraphale could only cope with the company of humans in short bursts. Even when there were only eight of them (eleven, if one wanted to include the two in Na'eltama'uk’s womb and the one in Sedeqetelebab’s), their feelings and voices were so _loud_ ; someone was always saying something, doing something.

For someone like Aziraphale, who had spent years without moving, barely thinking, it was intoxicating. It was exhilarating and then, suddenly, it would shift and become terrifying, and he had no way of predicting when the sickening shift would occur. So he stayed on the outskirts of their community for the most part, checking on the animals and refamiliarizing himself with them all.

Couldn’t spot the unicorns, though. He’d liked them, in the Garden. Very friendly creatures.

When he returned the first time, there were three tiny humans in the camp. One was curled against her mother’s breast, suckling with fierce determination; the other two were bigger, toddling naked between their mother and aunt.

They were fascinating. Watching them discover the world was more restful than speaking to the adults, sometimes. They didn’t require long or thoughtful responses: one would hold up a stone or a stick for Aziraphale to examine, and he’d agree that it was quite marvellous, yes, indeed. And they would be satisfied, and move onto the next artefact.

*

On the next visit Naamah was finally successful in making him sit down for bread with them. After the beer he had tasted fresh water, which had been cool and somehow both sweet and tasteless at once. It had made him feel as though some white, refreshing light was flowing in between each one of his atoms. He had also tasted seawater, and the experience had been distinctly more unpleasant.

But the bread was a revelation. Lightness turned to heaviness in his mouth; the texture was fascinating; it was warm from the oven, and its steam was more subtle and more delicious than the smoke of incense. It tasted like tears, which ought to have made him dislike it, but… instead it made him crave more of the taste. Mortal life was so very strange. How could it be that bread could taste of tears, and that his body might crave the taste of them?

*

On his next trip through the wilderness he came across a snake. He’d met a few already, yellow and green and red, but this handsome fellow was as black as night, with a sheen like the blue of a raven’s wing across his scales. Aziraphale picked it up and sat down on a rock to watch the sunset. “Hello – I ought to check – you’re not Crawly, are you?”

The snake curled in his lap. It did not speak. It did not blink. But its little black tongue peaked out of its mouth, shivering against his skin; it made Aziraphale smile, for some reason.

He sighed. “I thought not. Now, are you a fanged fellow or one of the constrict- oh, I see, fanged it is! Ah…”

He shook his bitten hand as the snake fled from his lap and slithered away. Aziraphale sucked the wounds instinctively and made a face. “Urgh.” Worse than seawater.

Much worse. He could feel the blood in his veins becoming thick. Solid. He had to think fast. He knew where blood went and had a relatively good idea of what it did – that had been a messy day, gosh – memories impotently beat their little fists on the inside of his skull – he shoved them down. He stopped his blood from flowing in his left arm to prevent it from reaching his heart, but then he could take his time in noticing the effect it had on his blood. So simple – a coagulant as a venom – and yet so effective, even dramatic. “How clever,” he said, and miracled every trace of it from his bloodstream.

He heard stuttering and hissing somewhere to his right and looked around, but he was quite alone. The snake had vanished. Aziraphale went back to the settlement to warn them not to bother any black snakes with red bellies.

*

Sometimes, the space of the world was too much for him. He found a cave in the mountains where he felt enclosed and safe. He peeked out at the stars through its mouth, and with the cold stone around him, he could finally relax.

Once, he felt the old heavy warmth stealing over him. It would be such a relief, not to think for a while. Such a relief, not to have to consciously push away the memories of the Cube that always threatened.

Aziraphale moved some of the boulders of the mountain, blocking up the long entrance of the cave until he was entirely immured, airless and lightless, with several cubits of stone in every direction. Only then could he sigh in relief, curl up, and close his eyes.

*

His vision was of the Cube. He didn’t know whether he felt resignation or terror. He’d long lost the ability to differentiate between the two.

He only knew that when he returned to the kind darkness, his face and robe were wet.

*

One of Na'eltama'uk’s twins was dead, he was told when he asked about the small mound outside the boundary of the camp. The other had her own two children, and another on the way. The camp was now loud with the shouts of children.

Noah saw his unease and beckoned him over. “New crop,” he said, and gave Aziraphale a handful of fruits.

They were like small pebbles, or large pearls: purple darker than a plum, with a smooth, glaucous skin. It was easy to break, and the flesh was sweet. “They’re lovely.”

“They make something even lovelier,” Noah promised, and handed Aziraphale a cup containing a black liquid.

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. It smelt over-sweet; it was rotten. “I don’t think-“

“I know, I know. Just try it.”

Aziraphale was _au fait_ with drinking liquids now, after the first disaster with the beer. He sipped, and was surprised when the liquid was bitter, rather than sweet. “Hm.”

“Drink one cup,” Noah said. “One cup, and decide then.”

The first cup was hard going, but Noah had always been kind to him, so Aziraphale nursed it while Noah pointed out all the new additions to the family. The second cup was much, much more pleasant. “I think it’s mellowed somewhat,” Aziraphale said, and Noah nodded in agreement.

As he drank the third cup, there was a strange new sensation. Aziraphale tried to put his finger on it, and as he was laughing at one of Noah’s jokes, he realised what it was. Rather than the vice around his chest, there was air. Rather than trapped electricity in his nerves, there was… nothing. Pain he’d never known was suddenly noticeable in its absence.

The fourth cup made him sing. He wanted to talk, but retained just enough of his wits not to trust anything he wanted to talk about. He had too many secrets, after all. So he sang praises to God, and Noah joined in with very touching gusto. The sixth cup made him laugh again. The eighth made him dizzy; he lay down on one of Naamah’s woven carpets, and watched the stars spin.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting up again, and was sobbing. It was a mechanical thing, quite automatic. Naamah was sitting with him, gently rubbing his back. Her hair was now as white as his own or her husband’s, but her skin was tawny, and her eyes were huge and black and beautiful. Aziraphale mouthed helplessly at her, and she nodded. “I know. I know. I know. I’m the same after a few cups of it. I remember the ark and all the bodies and I can’t keep the tears in any more. It’s all right.”

“Bodies-“ Aziraphale said helplessly. “What- what _is_ -?”

“It’s the _yayin_. It makes you happy, then laugh, then sleep or cry. Or strip off, if you’re my husband. That man hates clothes.”

“Innocence,” Aziaphale said. “Before- before- Oh, God-“

“It’s all right. Throwing it up might help.”

“Is it _poison_?” Aziraphale said. This was worse than the snake-venom. Oh, this poison was subtle – this was in every part of him already. Miracling the _yayin_ from his corporation was a trickier job than removing the snake-venom; its effects were far less dramatic, but so many of his organs were affected…

“Wish I could do that,” Naamah said when he emerged on the other side of the miracle, shaking and even paler than usual.

“I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale wiped his face. “I’m absolutely mortified – I can only apologise – I’m so sorry-“

“It’s all right.” She smiled thoughtfully. “I didn’t know angels could cry.”

“We can. We do,” Aziraphale said. Not only him. So many of the Rebels had wept, before… “But you shouldn’t have to see it.”

“Of course I should,” Naamah said. “We’re your friends, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know what…” Aziraphale said. “Not kin. We’re not kin.”

“No. _Friends_ , Aziraphale.” This ancient, wizened human woman was looking at him with _concern_. “So angels can cry, but don’t have friends? I think I’d drink the _yayin_ too.”

There was a loud shout from the tent nearby. Ham emerged in an apoplexy of laughter. “Shem! Japheth! Come and look at this!”

What followed was, Aziraphale thought, a _bit_ of an overreaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What followed was the Curse of Ham (Genesis 9:20–27).


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one gets a bit weird in the middle, but Aziraphale and Crawly are in a weird situation. Some body horror as well which briefly involves eyeballs, on the line beginning with the clause "The angel waved his hand over his head" if you want to skip it!

Venom hadn’t worked, but constriction had killed Zahabiel just as dead. Crawly hadn’t _enjoyed_ it, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

He practised on animals, working his way up to horses and cattle. That taught him the mechanics. He picked off a few humans to get the details down – usually drunken men who’d wandered away from their camp in a huff after an argument with their wife.

He found out that he didn’t need to break any bones, or even to strangle his victim. An all-over pressure worked just as well. From what he could gather, nosing around in the human’s body as they died, his coils pressed on the funny little tunnels through which blood ran.

Blood, he thought, always came back to blood, didn’t it? She was obsessed with the stuff. One of the first things She’d said to Noah after the Flood, even before the bloody rainbow, was that humans could eat whatever they wanted as long as it didn’t have lifeblood in it.

Or Crawly could bite his stupid angel head off. Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to reattach his head if it was in Crawly’s oesophagus.

Hopefully.

It was worth a shot in any case. Luckily, Aziraphale seemed to want to make friends with every snake he stumbled upon.

*

Every time Aziraphale returned from his wanderings to Noah’s camp, it was larger. There were some permanent buildings now, made from the mud and rocks and wood, and there were already a couple of splinter camps emerging in the light of family arguments.

But there was one person he could always pick out immediately: Noah, his brother in strange appearance.

This time, he didn’t see the tell-tale white upon white that marked out Noah. Today he saw dark red hair, the colour of carnelian, shining gold in the sun.

“Crawly!” Aziraphale shouted, and he created a small avalanche of stones as he hurried down the hillside. “Hello, Crawly! You found us!”

The woman turned around. She had a round face, and dark eyes, and fear on her face.

“Oh!” said Aziraphale, and wondered at the strange, completely unexpected elation that he’d felt, the heavy loss in his chest that had followed it. He had been _hoping_ it was Crawly. Was that wrong? If Crawly was here, trouble would certainly follow…

But there _was_ a preternatural presence in the camp. And Aziraphale realised that Crawly, whatever trouble he brought, had felt like a better option to hope for than another angel.

What if it was Gabriel?

Noah was hurrying towards him, as fast as his eight-hundred year old legs could carry him. “Aziraphale! This way, this way, we have to hurry! She said she couldn’t go until she saw you.”

The air inside Noah’s house was acrid. Musty. “There you are,” Naamah croaked from her bed. “I told _him_ he could wait, when he said you were approaching.”

Aziraphale looked up into the dark abysses under the cowl. “Lord Azrael…”

AZIRAPHALE.

He’d never spoken to Death before. He’d never witnessed the true moment of mortality. He looked helplessly between the angel and Naamah. “Are you in pain?”

“No, no,” Naamah said. Her eyes were closed, slowing a thin line of grey. “He doesn’t look like you…”

Aziraphale glanced up at Azrael apologetically. “Oh, he’s much, _much_ better than me. Much older. Much higher in rank. I’m just ordinary. But, please, don’t worry. He’s God’s psychopomp. He’s here to look after you. We all are.”

He wanted to give her some measure of warmth and peace in her final breaths, but it was hard to find anything inside himself. He remembered drifting his fingers in the sparkling water, after he was first released, and gave her that. Then another memory presented itself: warmth. What was surprising was the source. Crawly’s laugh of surprise when Aziraphale managed even the most tentative response to his twisting words. A gleam of something like admiration in those stunning yellow eyes. That made him feel warm.

Aziraphale gave that to Naamah too.

He moved aside, and guided her hand into her husband’s. The three of them watched her body. In a few moments, she joined them.

*

There were so many humans, now. As soon as Naamah was buried Aziraphale wandered south for a while, picking grapes from the vines as he walked. He ought to check in on the marshy settlement, heal any illnesses he could, remind them that God loved them and wanted them to love each other, and then back up and north past the Plain of Ararat.

He popped a grape into his mouth and stopped. A black snake moved amid the black earth, but this one had lovely gold and beige splotches on its back. Not like his venomous friend from a few years ago. “Hello,” he said, reaching down to tickle its head. “It’s not Crawly, is it?”

The snake didn’t answer, save for rearing up and up, twining around his leg. Aziraphale was pleased; this was a very friendly snake. “You’ve been eating well – so long! How long must you be?” Aziraphale said, carrying it along. “Gosh, you must be approaching six cubits. Seven?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Eight?”

The snake was growing. He was sure of it; he couldn’t trust his eyes much when it came to spatial reasoning – no need for spatial reasoning in the Cube, no, don’t think about that – but this snake was… nine cubits, now? And it was growing thicker.

The snake wound around his upper arms, pinning them to his sides. “Excuse me,” Aziraphale said, and then he knew his eyes really weren’t deceiving him, because the gold and yellow splotches were fading. Something preternatural? And yet some animals could change their colourings… Pufferfish could look bigger? “Crawly-“ Aziraphale tried again, and cleared his throat, for the snake had made its way around that now too. “Crawly, if you _are_ Crawly, you really must say, it’s not fair otherwise.”

No answer – Aziraphale was suddenly struck by the thought that this might be _another_ demon. Like a fool, he’d only been asking if the snake was Crawly! Another demon could quite honestly not answer that!

Unfortunately, he was distracted from this realisation that the snake was now quite enormous, far larger than Aziraphale by any measure, and was unhinging its jaw.

*

For exactly one second after Crawly clamped his jaws (complete with shark’s teeth rather than fangs, for the occasion) around Aziraphale’s head, he thought that it might have worked. He felt his teeth break flesh, and Aziraphale couldn’t move to draw his sword from his belt.

Then heat and pain like boiling oil filled his mouth. He threw himself back, _away_ , anything to put any distance between himself and the heat. He returned to his favourite human shape before he hit the ground – in extremis he returned to the form he felt most powerful in, and as a human he had hands which he could turn ice-cold and clap over his mouth in a futile attempt to soothe the burns.

Aziraphale’s head was on fire.

The angel waved his hand over his head, extinguishing the flames. The melting flesh began to reform – the awful white goo ran back up his cheeks to settle and solidify in his eye sockets.

Aziraphale blinked, eyes whole again and sky-blue and _hurt_ , and patted the last ember out from his hair. “It _was_ you!”

“Whaf,” said Crawly, “tha FUH?”

“Oh, right,” Aziraphale said, and pulled power down from heaven.

It flowed into Crawly’s mouth and over his tongue was like kind ice, like the sweetest, coolest water in existence; Crawly drank it down, and shook from the fading pain. “What,” he tried again. The healing power had pooled in his stomach, and had become fear. “What _the fuck was that_?”

“I had to make you let go of my head.”

“So you _set it on fire_?”

Aziraphale, the terrifying bastard, had the temerity to shrug. “I was worried you were going to take it off. I panicked.”

“So – angel, this is what I can’t get over, help me here. So your first instinct is TO SET YOUR OWN HEAD ON FIRE?” Crawly shouted.

“I’m all right. Well, hurt like the dickens, but only for a few seconds.” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “And what were _you_ doing trying to eat my head anyway?”

Crawly opened his mouth helplessly.

“I _asked_ if you were Crawly, and you just ignored me.” Aziraphale looked wounded. “I just wanted to talk.”

“Oh, right, I bet you did,” Crawly spat. “Let me guess, your angel mates on their way again for another ambush?”

“ _Oh_. Oh, no. I’m sorry. I should have realised that’s what you thought happened,” Aziraphale said. He twisted his hands. “Oh, that makes _sense_. I had no _idea_ they were coming. It wasn’t an ambush. No wonder you didn’t want to talk to me.”

“Right,” Crawly said. “Sure.” He was trying to back away without making sudden movements, keeping one eye on the sky. “Wanted a cosy little chat with a demon. You must think I’m an idiot.”

“No, not at all, I can see what it must have looked like from your point of view,” Aziraphale said. “Like I’d… _lured_ you there, and stalled you. No wonder you cut my head off.”

Crawly wanted to bury his head in his hands, but that would mean closing his eyes. Instead he snarled, showing his fangs at the angel.

Aziraphale seemed unperturbed. “It’s just me. Can you feel it? There aren’t any other angels for a thousand miles. I keep an eye out for them too. Though if you can’t feel that then of course that’s what I _would_ say. ‘I’m a liar,’ said the liar,” he said with a little smile. “Like you said last time. Remember?”

The worst thing, Crawly thought, as he reached out for a split second, was that Aziraphale was right. He _couldn’t_ feel any other angels in the vicinity. Just Aziraphale, burning in front of him like a pale blue star.

He didn’t know what it meant. He now understood what Aziraphale had said he’d felt in the tent the last time they’d spoken. This time he was the one who couldn’t parse what the _heaven_ was going on.

Crawly pointed at Aziraphale. “Don’t follow me. Don’t you dare. Or I’ll _kill_ you.” He took off, determinedly not thinking that the angel was kind enough not to point out the obvious.

He flew north, to the mountains between the two seas. Even there, there were humans – they were multiplying faster than he could keep track of. This was where one of Japheth’s grandsons had set up, in a strange land where the rocks rang like metal and the earth belched fire.

Poison hadn’t worked, which was understandable, but _beheading_? Even…. Even fire.

_Hurt like the dickens_ , that’s what he said.

He had to make the angel’s death instantaneous. Well, not instantaneous – he probably didn’t need to start fucking around in Planck times or anything. But it needed to be fast enough that Aziraphale’s corporation would already be dead before the angel knew what was happening or how to counter it. _Completely_ unexpected.

It was more difficult than one might think.

He had two options, he thought. One was an explosion. The other was dropping something massive and heavy and turning the angel’s corporation to jam.

But, given how Aziraphale tended to wander around sighing at clouds and smiling at stars, the second might be trickier.

But how to engineer an explosion?

Maybe he could lure him to the tar pits? That was pretty much the opposite of an instantaneous death, but it might keep him still long enough for Crawly to kill him some other way?

He’d remembered the little liar joke.

And had the gall, he reminded himself, to turn it on Crawly. He flattered himself that he could spot a liar, but Aziraphale was… Too good a liar, or no liar at all. It had to be too good. It had to have been an ambush.

What was more interesting? An angel who could lie better than any demon, better than any _human_ , or one who really had just wanted to offer a demon shelter in the storm?

Not that he could decide his life according to what was _interesting_. Look at how well that’d worked out for him.

*

Noah’s death warranted not only a visit from Azrael, but from Gabriel as well. It meant that as the prophet lay on his death-bed Aziraphale was too terrified to talk. He tried to impart what comfort he could from holding Noah’s hand instead, but Gabriel had raised his eyebrow at that.

In the end Aziraphale melted back into the corner, until the end.

He gave Noah a wretched smile once his friend was free of his ancient body and gathered up his courage enough to give him a little wave. Noah returned it and walked with Azrael.

“Right,” Gabriel said, clapping his hands. “Let’s get into the fresh air. This smell, urgh!”

Gabriel made him wait until they were far outside the camp. Aziraphale’s hands were red from the wringing. “I-“ he ventured.

“Have been extremely remiss in sending up reports, yes,” said Gabriel.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, instantly wrong-footed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know-“

“You didn’t _think_ ,” Gabriel corrected him. “Apparently you need to have every minute thing explained to you. I need reports, Aziraphale. Every three months. You know what a month is?”

Aziraphale nodded. Looked down at the sand. He didn’t blush.

“No report in over three hundred years,” Gabriel said.

“I thought I was doing all right…” Aziraphale said. He could feel the pit opening up beneath his feet. He could feel the chill of it. “I’m so sorry.”

“You thought that just because I didn’t have the time until now to censure you that you were _doing well_?” Gabriel shook his head. He sighed. “Not only no reports. You’ve been hanging around with Noah and his family. No doubt making a nuisance of yourself. You should be walking around, being a little more proactive!”

“I’m so sorry, Gabriel.”

“Doing far too many miracles on your own corporation.” Gabriel stopped. He looked around to make sure they were far outside the camp. “Zahabiel told me. About what you did with your _head_. Now, I'm assuming that it’s some freakish thing you did to yourself with the rest of the grotesqueries you indulged in in your box. I’ve managed to shut him up from spreading it around. I said we’d assigned you _because_ of your… unusual talent. Did you tell him?”

“No!” Aziraphale said instantly. “No, no, I swear! I swear, Gabriel, he doesn’t know about- about-“

“Good. Neither must anyone else. You’re to cease these… these _spectacles_ , Aziraphale. Anyone would have thought you’d had enough attention to last an eternity, but you just want all eyes on you, don’t you?”

“No! Never, no, absolutely not, I don’t _any_ attention _at all_ -“

“Then _stop._ I looked over the records and three times now you’ve healed yourself after a demonic attack, and you let Crawly just slither off! You’ve not discorporated him once since you’ve been here!” Gabriel was _looming_. “You realise that every minute he’s up here, he’s spreading the Opposition’s message? It’s your duty to be _thwarting_ him!”

“But- but that doesn’t mean killing him, surely?” said Aziraphale. “I don’t understand why we don’t just leave each other to get on with our own work. I thought that’s why we were here – we meaning, you know, all of us, angels _and_ demons - to offer the humans a choice? If the pull to both sides is in balance, doesn’t that make their subsequent choice of the good more impressive?”

The pit yawned wide. He’d said something wrong. He knew it instantly, though not a single muscle of Gabriel’s face had moved. “I’m sorry,” he offered desperately. “Ignore me – ignore all of that-“

“I intend to.”

“Please, Gabriel, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, you’re right, of course, I need to-“ He swallowed. “Find, kill – whatever you want, I mean, whatever you think best, whatever you think the Great Plan means-“

Gabriel held out his hand. “Sword.”

The bronze blade flashed in the sunlight, Aziraphale’s hand was shaking so much. Gabriel looked at it with bored contempt, and stabbed the air beside them.

There should have been no sound. Instead, there was the slight grumble of marble on marble.

Aziraphale fell to his knees. “No! No, no, nonono, please, please-“

Gabriel sawed through the air until there was a hole in the fabric of the universe. “A little dimension just for you.”

“I’m sorry!” Aziraphale’s breath stirred the sand, his face was so close to the ground. “I’m so sorry, Gabriel, I’m so sorry-“

“You want to ask questions? You want to think for yourself? You can do it in there.” Gabriel waited while Aziraphale begged incoherently. “Every second you stay out here’s another year in there. Go on.”

Aziraphale’s limbs wouldn’t obey him. He could stop his heart, cleanse his own blood, refashion his flesh and look for his own head. But now his arms and legs wouldn’t move. They splayed as he tried to crawl. The marble was cold, and clean, and perfectly white.

Gabriel let the sword drop point down in the sand so that it stood upright in the emptiness of the plain. “So I remember where I put you,” he said, and pinched his fingers closed.


	9. Chapter 9

Gabriel brought the marble slab home slowly. “Gabriel!” Aziraphale shrieked at him, disgusting animal panic written all over his face. “Gabriel, they’ll take the sword! The humans will take it – they’ll take it! Gabriel, _please_!”

The box sealed shut, cutting off Aziraphale’s scream.

“Urgh,” Gabriel said, and rubbed the space between his eyebrows. Aziraphale… Why did one pathetic mistake of an angel cause him so much stress? The fact that God remembered _this_ creature to ask about, of all Her angels… He couldn’t fathom it.

He couldn’t understand it.

He didn’t waste any more time on the old problem. He went jogging instead.

Gabriel didn’t enjoy the material plane, but there were some things about it that he _appreciated_. Spiritual clothes didn’t hang quite right; the physical stuff had more weight to it. The other thing that he appreciated was exercise. He appreciated how firm and powerful his body was. He liked the lingering burn in his muscles and the way the ground juddered up through his body with every step.

Might was great. Influence was great. Endurance was great. But there was something to be said for the feeling of purely _physical_ strength to match it.

He didn’t intend to spend more than a day on Earth, even for Noah. God’s new favourite Enoch – oh, _sorry¸_ their newest angel _the Metatron_ – had been going on about how much he was looking forward to seeing his great-grandson, as though anyone gave a damn.

Aziraphale should count himself lucky. A short, sharp shock, just to stamp out that stubborn questioning weed. To remind him of what Gabriel could do to him.

No more than that. Gabriel didn’t want him to _hurt_ himself again. He wasn’t a _sadist._

The sword was still there when he returned to the plain. Any human who tried to touch it would have died, of course. The sun was setting, and the sweat on his body felt cool. He noted the sensation as he stretched, and miracled his sweat away and his clothes back on.

He opened the box. Aziraphale lay curled up in the centre, gibbering to himself. At least he had all his limbs this time, Gabriel thought. And his clothes.

He cleared his throat. Aziraphale’s gaze slid up, jaggedly, like a hook catching on fabric.

“Do you _want_ to come out? You can stay in there if you want.”

_That_ made Aziraphale scramble out on his hands and knees, with gratifying desperation. Gabriel folded his arms and looked down. “So?”

More gibbering. More nonsense. He snapped his fingers in the other angel’s face. “Aziraphale!” He didn’t have much patience for Aziraphale at the best of times. “You’re like this after a few _hours?_ ”

This made Aziraphale stop. He licked his lips. “…hours?” he croaked.

_Croaked_. How long had he been screaming? Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Yes, Aziraphale. It’s the same day.”

“It felt like… It felt like…”

The sight of Aziraphale grovelling in the sand made Gabriel feel cold inside. It made him feel as though he was made out of iron. He sighed. “A few hours. Hopefully you’ve had the time to give a little thought as to how you’re going to improve, hmm?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale said, grasping with pathetic desperation at the mercy Gabriel was so magnanimously extending to him. “Reports, every, every three moons-“

“Reports.” Gabriel counted off on his fingers. “No more attention-seeking. Thwart Crawly. Oh, and try not to let the entire world know you’re an angel, yeah? It’s fine if you’re smiting some demon for the greater glory of God, but if you’re just talking and being your usual self you’re less likely to embarrass the rest of us if they think you’re a human.”

“Yes, yes, of course, I won’t, I won’t, I’m sorry.”

Gabriel bent over at the waist. “Do you know how many galaxies are in this local supercluster, Aziraphale? More than ten myriads. And each galaxy gets one Dominion, three Powers, two archangels, and twelve angels. _Per galaxy_. While all _you_ have to look after is this one measly shithole, and you can’t even do that!”

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll do better-“

“If God hadn’t picked out this planet as Her free will Simulation or whatever it is She wants to do with Earth, the Milky-Way would be the same as any other galaxy. But She wants you here for your punishment, and whatever She wants She gets, so the rest of us just have to deal with the situation.” Gabriel lowered her voice. “But She just said She wants you on Earth. She didn’t say what you were to be doing, or where you were to be kept. That’s up to me. Do you understand?”

Aziraphale was hiding his eyes. He dashed at them. “Yes, yes, I understand. I’m sorry.”

“Good. Because if I have to answer more questions like the ones Zahabiel had, I’ll be upset.” He smiled. “Were you scared in there, champ?” Aziraphale flinched. “Scared they were going to take the sword?”

A nod.

“Well. If you’d taught them about morality better, you wouldn’t have had anything to worry about, would you? Think about that, Aziraphale. If you just do what you’re told, you don’t have anything to fear.”

*

“Wow,” Crawly said, looking up. And up. And up. It hurt his neck. “How are the guys at the top even _alive_? Must be fucking freezing up there.”

“That’s why I confiscated all the sheep,” Nimrod said. “Lots of sheep, lots of wool. Pressed all the women into weaving, knitting – whatever it is they do – and then the builders can go even higher.”

“Any sign of Heaven yet?”

“Not yet, but it must be close. I go up every full moon, to check how it’s coming along.” Nimrod clapped him on the shoulder. “You should join me, next time. I’d never have got this far without all your encouragement.”

Crawly waved a hand modestly.

“No, really. I’ll make sure your name’s inscribed on the bottom. I might have made it happen, but you were right there in the first stages.” The king laughed. “Not that anyone’d know, looking at you!”

“I told you, sunhat and veil,” said Crawly. “It’s the sun that ages you. Look at all these poor bastards.” One of the brick-makers gave him a dark look, and Crawly stuck a forked tongue out at him. “So, what _is_ the plan when you get to Heaven?”

“I suppose it depends on what kind of welcome they give us,” said Nimrod. “That albino keeps telling us it’ll be a disaster.”

“Albino?” Crawly stopped. “You mean – white hair, pale skin?”

“That’s right. Kept coming to the petition days. Then just started shouting at me every time I walked by. My guards beat him a few times, then he started going after the surveyors, architects, overseers. Then the builders and the brick-makers. Saying that his god’s not going to like the tower, that I’m a proud tyrant who’ll bring destruction down on everyone, all the rest.”

“You didn’t have him executed?” Crawly asked lightly.

“You know, everyone was saying I should. But I wanted to see the look on his stupid face when I did it,” said Nimrod. “Then I’ll kill him. Until then I’ve got him locked up in the Palace.”

They walked on while Crawly assimilated this exciting new information. A brick cell wouldn’t hold an angel; he must be there willingly, hoping to persuade the king to stop work on the Tower. Stupid Aziraphale, he thought with malicious joy. Not a clue about Nimrod’s personality – barely a clue about human nature.

“Stupid sod. It’s always the failures in life who go on about what the gods want, isn’t it? It’s an excuse for those who know they’re not strong enough to achieve what _they_ want.”

Nimrod looked pleased with that, as Crawly knew he would. “Right? I should cut his fucking tongue out. Talks to _everyone_ about the Tower. Or did – two of the guards fell for his nonsense and I executed them myself in front of him. That shut him up for a bit!”

“I bet it did,” Crawly murmured. The jury was still out on whether the angel really was a soft-hearted imbecile or a cunning, ambushing liar… Judge. Juries wouldn’t be around for ages yet. “Could I talk to him?”

Nimrod raised an eyebrow. “Don’t let him persuade you!”

“Oh, I won’t. Always good to know what the enemy’s saying though. I need to get in before you decide to feed his tongue to your dogs,” Crawly said, grinning back. And Nimrod gave him permission, as Crawly had known he would.

*

He’d asked without thinking. He told himself that he just wanted to know where the cell was. He sat outside the prison for a long time, looking at the palace wing which contained it.

Blowing the place up would be tricky. Lots of casualties too. Normally he wouldn’t be fussed, but… Lots of kids in the palace complex. The harem. It was close to the brick-yards too… And an explosion, well, that could delay work on the Tower.

He felt better. Yes. Couldn’t stop work on the Tower.

He could send a message Downstairs. The easiest thing to do would be the send hellfire up into the angel’s cell. Like a rat in a trap…

Crawly liked rats. He knew what it was like, to be hunted by beautiful, vicious bastards.

(They were also delicious.)

No, Aziraphale didn’t even know he _was_ trapped. He’d have no idea what was coming. Snuffed out of existence without ever knowing what had happened.

Crawly’s stomach squirmed. Extinction was a bit different to discorporation. With hellfire, yes, he might get one over on Aziraphale. But only once. And Aziraphale wouldn’t even know it had been Crawly who’d done it.

“Bless it,” he grumbled, and stood up.

The skills needed to build a tower a mile tall at least meant that Nimrod’s prison was a solid, imposing thing. Not that that should have mattered to an angel. The guard outside lifted the bar across the cell door and opened it for Crawly, who stepped into the dark red cell.

It wasn't dark for long. Aziraphale glanced at who was coming in, and as soon as he saw Crawly _his face lit up_. Quite literally. White light poured from the angel, first soft and then brilliant. “Crawly!”

Crawly’s confusion was like bile in his throat. Fear, disgust, contempt, irritation – any of these he could prepare for, even enjoy. But this reaction was genuinely indistinguishable from sincere pleasure at his unexpected presence.

Aziraphale was scrambling to his feet. “I haven’t seen you in years! Since that time with the-“ He made a gesture like a flicker of flame around his head, and beamed. “How have you been? Oh – oh, Crawly, this isn’t _your_ doing, is it?”

He looked _disappointed_. Angels weren’t allowed to be disappointed in him. That was the whole point of all this. “Yup,” he said, and lounged aggressively against the wall. “Didn’t realise you were trying to put a stop to it, or I’d have come earlier.”

“Would you?” Aziraphale was blushing like a girl, fiddling with the gold-embroidered hem of his himation, pigeon-toed. The sandals were new, Crawly thought.

“Sure. Then I could spend more time laughing at you.”

“Oh, that isn’t nice,” Aziraphale with a moue. An actual _moue_. It made his lips look very pink and plump. “Not that you haven’t done really very well at the tempting here, but… Crawly, you really have to get them to stop now. You _know_ this is the kind of thing God will hate. She’ll… She’ll _do_ something.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“But people will be _hurt_.”

“Unlike an angel to give a shit about whom God hurts,” Crawly said. “Where were you during the flood anyway?”

Aziraphale gave a little jump, and Crawly felt satisfaction at turning the pin of guilt back on him. “I was at the South Pole!”

“Right. You said. Preaching God’s love to the penguins. Anyway, yes, I’m hoping for a big disaster with loads and loads of bodies, all caused by Nimrod’s pride. The building accidents alone…”

“Well, _yes_ ,” Aziraphale said. “The food stolen to feed the builders – women forced to give birth in the brick-yards! None of them are sinning, Hell already _has_ Nimrod, surely? Isn’t all this just… being unkind for the sake of it?”

Crawly spread his hands. “Er, duh. Demon.”

“But surely _you_ …” Aziraphale looked away, and wrung his hem again. “But when you _see_ them, when they’re scared or sad, doesn’t it make you feel scared or sad too? When they weep doesn’t it make you want to weep too?”

Crawly mimed vomiting.

Aziraphale sighed. He raised his arms, and Crawly thought he was about to cross them. Instead he hugged himself. “You really don’t feel… Oh, I’m sorry. Did God take that from you, when you Fell?”

Crawly felt his fangs grow as he bared them. “Fuck you!”

“Excuse _me_!”

“Why don’t you stop talking about what you don’t understand angel, eh? Stick to the everlasting bliss and cuddles.”

“I was only asking questions,” said Aziraphale, wounded. “That’s _why_ I’m asking; I _want_ to understand-“

“You don’t. You really don’t.” Crawly realised he’d started pacing and forced himself to stop. “Well. I’ve got to get going. Lots of _evil_ to do, you know.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Um. Yes, about that. I, er. I’m in here because I was told not to use any selfish miracles, but now that you’re here I _am_ obliged to stop you. Discorporate you, actually… I’ve been given a direct order.”

“So… um. You do realise that it would probably have been more sensible to have not told me that? Ever heard of the ‘element of surprise’?” This was meant to be the angel who had lured him into an ambush. Who had picked up Satan knew how many snakes asking “Are you Crawly?” in that stupid prim voice of his. It was a double bluff. It _had_ to be a double bluff.

Aziraphale shifted. “I’m telling you so that you can _run_. Snakes are meant to be fast, aren’t they? If you run then you don’t have to be discorporated and I don’t have to discorporate you…” Aziraphale cocked his head to the side. “Oh – do you _want_ to go back to Hell? Is that it? I can, gosh, well, I know how to make it quick and pretty painless, if you want to go-“

“Down to Hell? Yeah, no thanks.” Crawly grinned humourlessly. “Do you want to go back to _Heaven?_ Because I can’t promise it won’t be painless, but-“

But Aziraphale had stepped back from him, flush against the wall of the cell, and his eyes were wide.

Crawly stopped. He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Aziraphale gave a high-pitched little laugh. “Of, of course I- B-but I have a duty here, so, I- If you did try to, to, to discorporate me, I would be obliged- even if you didn’t I should be-“

The realisation was like ice in Crawly’s lungs. Sudden certainty, like ice under his feet. Solid, yes, but he could so easily slip…

No one was that good a liar. No one in existence, let alone an angel.

Aziraphale hadn’t lured him into an ambush. He really had offered a demon shelter in a storm. He’d picked up snakes asking if they were Crawly because he truly believed that Crawly would cop to it. Aziraphale had been genuinely pleased to see him.

This changed everything.

With a snap of his fingers the floor of the cell was covered in carpets and cushions. Crawly sat down, studying the angel. “Sit.”

Aziraphale fretted instead. “You really ought to run-“

“Sit down, please.” He narrowed his eyes as he realised something else. “You buried my body…”

“Well, of course!” Aziraphale said. “One has to observe the basic courtesies.”

“Most angels don’t. Please, sit down. If we’re talking about observing basic courtesies.” Aziraphale finally sat down, and Crawly smiled at him. “So. You don’t want to go back up to Heaven, for whatever reason, and I don’t want to go back to Hell. It looks like the Earth is literally common ground…”

The angel smiled at this wordplay, and Crawly decided to press his advantage. “You said that you’d been warned off selfish miracles, so you couldn’t get yourself out of here… Does that include those ways you’ve stopped me from discorporating you? The healings?”

Aziraphale looked away and hid his lips.

“I see… But… Why wouldn’t they want you to show off what you can do, hmm? Certainly strikes fear into the heart of scum like me, knowing that angels can do that…”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. Crawly watched unblinking. “Unlessss…” he continued, “you’re the only one who can do it. You’re some kind of prototype, and they don’t want word getting around-“

“I’m not going to tell you, Crawly,” Aziraphale finally snapped. The first harsh word the angel had ever given him, Crawly realised.

“But you get in trouble if you get discorporated, right?”

“I’ve never been discorporated…” said Aziraphale.

_No need to rub it in, you smug bastard_. “Well, _I_ get into trouble if _I’m_ discorporated. And even though we reckon Heaven’s got easier access to new material than we do, all the angels I’ve discorporated have had a few years in Heaven before coming back down again. Including Cherubim – what rank are you?”

Aziraphale’s face was pink in the red clay of the cell. “I’m a Principality.”

“There you go. Even a bloody _Cherub_ was up there doing paperwork for a few years. So I doubt they’re too pleased when one of you loses a body. What I don’t understand is why you don’t want to fight me.”

“I don’t like violence,” Aziraphale said primly.

“Scared of it?”

“Very. Very.”

Crawly watched his face. “You seem to cope with pain pretty well. Don’t lose your head. Forgive the pun.”

Aziraphale’s smile was very small. “I’m not scared of pain, no. But I’m scared of violence.”

Crawly tucked that distinction away in the back of his mind. “Well. We’re at a bit of an impasse. You’ll be upset if you win, Heaven’ll be upset if you lose. Or even if you win by healing rather than killing… An angel who dislikes violence. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Aziraphale looked unimpressed. And anxious. “Crawly, _please_ leave.”

“Heaven wants you to fail. They’re setting you up to fail.”

“Of course they’re not.”

“They are.”

“Why do you care? As you said. You’re a demon.”

“Yeah, which means I already have to do Hell’s dirty work for them. I’m not going to do Heaven’s too.” Crawly leant forward. “But I'm in the same boat, aren't I? Hell wants me to kill you. I’m likely to come off the worse from any fight we have, hmm? Our bosses want us to fight, and both of us are… reluctant to have a head-to-head clash.”

“Very astutely summarised, but you’re not running, Crawly!”

Crawly shook his head. “How about we… arrange matters so that neither of us gets into trouble? We make a promise that neither of us tries to _really_ discorporate the other. We can have the odd fight, make it very dramatic. Then if anyone asks any of the humans around if they’ve seen some tit with white hair fighting a very sexy and intimidating redhead, they’ll say yes.”

“But… that would be lying!” Aziraphale said.

“Isn’t a little dishonesty better than violence, though?” Crawly asked in his best tempting voice. “Surely a little lie is better than facilitating _cruelty_?”

The angel was looking more and more flustered. “But… how could I trust you?”

Crawly scoffed. “Oh, now you ask! After two tries of ‘hullo, if you’re Crawly, you have to say’!”

“Two?” Aziraphale gasped; his mouth opened in a comically perfect circle. “Three times! Gabriel said I’d healed myself after _three_ run-ins with you – you were the venomous red-belly!”

Crawly posed. “Ta-dah!”

“That was a very clever venom,” Aziraphale said. “Is that your only one, or do you have others? Can you choose?”

“You’ll be able to find out, if you want to fight,” Crawly said mournfully. Aziraphale seemed to dislike the idea of hurting or killing more than of being hurt… “Of course, you’ll probably beat me. Never even get a chance to see the different venoms. You’ll just cut me down – easily – then I’ll probably be tortured for a few centuries in Hell…”

“Oh, no!” Aziraphale cried.

“Oh, yes. Back on the rack… Intestines pulled out. Skin peeled off.” To be honest, the bastinado had been worse, but only because he was ticklish. The real torture was waiting for Ligur to remember he was there, and then listening to him bitch about Dagon.

“That really stings,” Aziraphale said. His eyes were very wide. He gnawed at his thumb.

Crawly sniffed, and sighed. “Fine, look, if you have to, could you just… do it? Get it over with? It’s the waiting that’s the worst thing. The uncertainty, you know?”

There was a definite shimmer in Aziraphale’s eyes. His chin was wobbling.

Bingo.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to reply to comments as soon as possible, but I have a massive work deadline soon and I tend to use any spare moments for writing! I will work on the next chapter, but thank you so much in advance - your comments are so motivating and they make me so happy!

This was pathetic. It was _tragic_ how much Aziraphale was enjoying this.

“Begone, foul fiend, and tempt these poor humans no more!” he said, pointing his sword, any effect entirely ruined by the wide grin on his face.

Whatever. Crawly could indulge him. He was the one in control of the whole situation, after all. He was the one pulling the strings. “Oh, bright and righteousssss angel, have at thee,” he said, swaying back and forth like a cobra. He chased Aziraphale up the Tower a bit further. The higher they were, the less likely any of the humans below could see the details of Aziraphale’s atrocious acting. They’d fought through the Palace compound, Aziraphale sending a guard to sleep and nicking his sword, and up to the Tower; the builders had wisely fled when they saw the two pale weirdos crossing swords on the scaffolding. “Oi! You’re not meant to _giggle_ when I’m chasing you!”

“I’m not giggling!” Aziraphale said, punctuating the denial with a lunge. “I’m laughing! Laughing at your foolishness, serpent!”

There was something very incongruous about Aziraphale’s performance. Oh, when he was posing or making up lines it was very funny, but when the angel lunged, or parried, his movements were… worryingly perfect. Total efficiency of movement. Total physical control. A movement practised over and over and over and over again, until the perfection was automatic.

It made him think that he’d hate for this to be a real duel. Great. Marvellous. Unkillable _and_ brilliant with a sword.

Thank Satan he was a moron.

“Crawly,” Aziraphale said. “Wait, Crawly, stop a moment.”

“Tired already?” Crawly said with another stab.

Aziraphale parried it with a glance out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t even riposte, and Crawly’s pride curdled in his gut. “No, I’m serious – look.”

For a split second Crawly considered lopping Aziraphale’s head off while he was looking the other way and just drop-kicking it off the Tower. Let him find it _then._ But as he raised his sword the wind suddenly blew so violently he was lifted off his feet; Aziraphale gripped his wrist and pulled him back to steady him.

That was even worse. To hide how his cheeks flamed in anger, Crawly looked down off the Tower.

No one was looking at them. Below was a scene of chaos; there was fighting, running, screaming arguments. They couldn’t hear what was being said over the wind, which was picking up every second.

He looked at Aziraphale. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

They both ran back down the scaffolding.

*

Crawly spotted Aziraphale in a tavern in Mari, mournfully dragging a strip of spiced mutton through a chickpea and almond paste, and made a beeline for him. “Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale turned around. “Crawly!” His beam was like sunlight; his face was like moonlight. The misery vanished, replaced by a wide, warm smile. “Silimma hemeen!”

“You’re not in the land of the black-headed people now,” Crawly said, tossing his hair over his shoulder by way of illustration. He sat down next to the angel and snapped his fingers at the barmaid. “How’s your Kish-tongue?”

“All right,” Aziraphale said hesitantly. “Similar enough to Hebrew. I thought I should come North and practice.”

“Not because you heard of my nefarious deeds? I’m hurt.” Crawly took one of the strips of mutton. “What are we drinking?”

“Date wine.”

“With mutton?” Crawly said, as a cup and fresh jug was placed in front of him. “Too sweet.”

“You’re welcome to buy your own drink,” Aziraphale said, surprising a laugh out of Crawly. They might be blunt molars, but at least the angel had some teeth. “So. Were you in trouble, about the languages thing?”

“Nah. I said it was a total win; God doing our work for us. Sowing division, creating misunderstandings between friends and families… Great stuff.”

Aziraphale winced, and gave him a rueful smile. “Hmm – I can certainly… Well. I’m glad they didn’t want to punish you for it.”

“Would you have been worried about me?” Crawly said teasingly.

“Oh, well, um,” Aziraphale said. He was drawing his mutton strip back and forth through the hot chickpea paste. “I mean, as an angel I worry about the well-being of all God’s creatures-“

“Not one of God’s creatures.”

“You are, though,” Aziraphale said. His eyes were shining, the light blue of a cold morning. “She created you. You’re still Her creature, even if you’re not… on speaking terms.”

Crawly barked in humourless laughter. “Right. Sure. New way of putting it. Whatever. Besides, _as an angel_ , you’re definitely not meant to be worried about demons.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale was _blushing_ , Crawly suddenly noticed. It was a lovely colour on him, he noted objectively. “I love this – the _etrog_ -juice and the olive oil, I’d never have thought to mix them, humans are so clever-“

“Angel, focus.”

“All right, I was a _little_ worried,” Aziraphale admitted with a sidelong glance, and Crawly grinned in triumph. He poured out some more of the date wine.

*

The tavern in Gomorrah was Crawly’s favourite in the entire Levant. It served the usual date-palm wine, but in this tavern the wench behind the bar mixed it with a crushed lemongrass and grated nutmeg. The sourness and the spice off-set the sweetness of the date-palm, and she even garnished it with a fancy little feather.

Given the distraction the cock-tail provided, it was little surprise that Aziraphale was winning at dal. “Three, and that’s a rosette, so another roll, two! And I’m home!”

“Urgh,” Crawly said. “Best of three?”

“I oughtn’t stay too long,” Aziraphale said. “Gomorrah’s not particularly known for its hospitality.”

“Don’t want to explain to Gabriel if you get discorporated in such a dodgy area?” Crawly grinned.

“Partially. He’s a little miffed at the moment. I had my performance review a year or so ago. He was upset I haven’t been killing you-“

Crawly placed his hand over his heart.

“- but Raphael spoke up for me, luckily. Said that the soul work was going well. He was so complimentary about my little seamstresses in Sodom.”

Crawly snickered. “I bet he was.”

“Not like _that_ , Crawly. Honestly! They’re doing so well. It’s a lovely little business. Speaking of which, would you like to buy one of the ribbons they’ve made?”

“Not particularly. So, you go around trying to flog whores’ first attempts at honest trade?” Aziraphale’s shuffle told him that that was exactly what the angel was doing. “Cleaning up Sodom one prozzie at a time, eh?”

“That’s no way to talk about ladies, no matter their occupation,” Aziraphale said with a little of the acid Crawly so enjoyed from him. “And if you wanted to get one cheap then you’ve missed your chance. You’ll see.”

*

It was Aziraphale who found Crawly in Susa. He looked up just as the angel stepped into his favoured tavern, which meant he was able to see perfectly well how Aziraphale’s face lit up from within as soon as he recognised Crawly.

“Helloo!” he called across the tavern, like the old madam of a brothel. “What are you drinking? I’ll get us another!”

Crawly watched as Aziraphale went over to buy a new jug of wine (one of the significant benefits of living in Elam). He gave the impression of being a staid little fusspot – generally a court eunuch – but then he’d go and be so _impulsive_ , so _reckless_. It was a good thing for Aziraphale that Crawly wasn’t trying to make him Fall.

Crawly didn’t know whether it would help or hurt. To see one more naïve bastard Fall because they hung around with the wrong person.

Aziraphale sat on the cushion next to him as daintily as a girl; if Crawly didn’t know any better, he’d think the angel was being _coy._

That was something to think about. He decided on an experiment, when he could.

Aziraphale provided him with an opportunity instantly. “Don’t tell me – Napirisha?”

Crawly stood up and gave him a twirl; the long fringes on his skirt flared out with gratifying drama. “The one and only.”

He sat down, but he didn’t take his own cushion. Instead, he sat further away.

Aziraphale visibly noticed. The corners of his mouth turned down, and he looked away quickly.

Oh, hohoho. Did the angel have a _crush_? The thought was unthinkable, and yet- Crawly quickly moved back, and pressed his knee to Aziraphale’s. “Oooh, I like the bracelet!”

Instant joy on Aziraphale’s face again, then the demure glance down at the jewellery in question. “Thank you,” Aziraphale said, holding out the bangle to be admired. It was a delicate pink, made of shell.

Did Aziraphale _know_ he had a crush? Did an angel know what one was? Or did he never consider that he might fancy a _demon_? “Colour suits you.” Crawly’s finger drifted from the bracelet across Aziraphale’s skin. “See? Matches.”

Aziraphale pulled back and scratched his arm. “Matches?”

“Pink, with the cool undertones. I’m all warmth, so that shade of pink would look awful on me. Carnelian’s my stone.”

“Oh, in that case!” Aziraphale said, with excitement that would be touching if Crawly hadn’t been a demon and thus nauseated by sentiment. “The bracelet too, it was a gift - all the palace scribes were given a gift at Chedorlaomer’s coronation last month. A bangle and a carnelian stylus – with white etchings, you know, in the Indus style? Here!”

Crawly turned the pen over in his hands. “Very fancy…”

“Take it,” Aziraphale said.

Crawly looked at him. “Take it?”

“As a gift. You said carnelian’s your stone.”

“To wear, not to write with! What am I going to do with a stylus?” Crawly looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Besides, won’t you get into trouble if the king sees you without the fancy pen he gave you?”

Aziraphale went white. “Oh. Oh, um. Um. You’re right. Oh, you’re right, I’m sorry-“

“No problem.” Crawly twirled his hand, and then around his wrist was his own bangle of carnelian, with the same white etchings as on Aziraphale’s stylus. “See? You gifted me with the design instead, and now no one’s in trouble.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were no longer blue. They were black, huge and black and ringed with a thin line of slate-grey.

The way he was looking at Crawly made him feel ill. No one ever looked at him like that; or, only a very few. The little kid in Uruk who'd said he’d do _anything_ if his Mummy could be well again was the one who sprung to mind. Crawly tried to shake the scary, unfamiliar feeling from his shoulders.

Definitely a bit of a crush. Poor, stupid angel. “Enjoying the writing then?”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Aziraphale said. “It’s so much fun. So clever, the way the meanings behind the letters change, based on sound or meaning… You could never grow bored of it! You could be writing for a thousand years and never run out of words…” Aziraphale gave Crawly a shifty little look and drained his bull-shaped cup. “But, yes – it’s a good way be useful, not be noticed…”

“Gets you some nice food and wine too.”

“One can’t complain.”

“Yeah, maybe not in Elam, but when was the last time you were in Ur? I ate Palace Cake last time I was there, and it was- I don’t know whether I should tell you to have another drink, because it’ll either numb the pain or make you spew-“

“Crawly!” Aziraphale topped up their drinks anyway. “What was so bad about it?”

“The butter. The cheese.”

“I like butter and cheese.”

“Not in these quantities, angel,” Crawly said, and the cold, calculating little fingers at the back of his mind made another note of how Aziraphale smiled at that. “Butter, dates, raisins, cottage cheese, aniseed, eggs, milk, fennel- Fuck, I’m going to be sick, gimme the jug.”

*

Ten years later they were in Egypt, and long overdue a fight. They met out in the desert, away from mortal eyes, to work out the choreography.

The water of the Nile was cool and blue. Aziraphale sat in the shallows, still wearing the same ridiculous old robe, apparently oblivious to the dangers posed by crocodiles or hippopotami.

“It just feels _nice_. You should come in, it’s lovely and cool.”

“I’m fine, thank you very much. I really need a win, come on.”

“I’ll be in trouble if I lose, though… What about… I beat you in the fight, but then you cunningly threw sand in my face?”

“Then I kicked you in the dick,” Crawly said thoughtfully. “Yeah, that works for both of us. You, a guileless idiot who fights by the rules…”

“And you, a cheating- a cheater,” Aziraphale supplied. “Perfect. Sorry.”

The water was sparkling – it’d be so good to just slide into the coolness of it, so light on his hot, itchy skin… “What for?”

“For calling you a cheater.”

“That’s the whole point, angel. Good to be a cheater, according to my side. Cheating bastard, me.”

“But you’re not really. Oh!” Aziraphale turned around so quickly an ibis took off; Crawly had shed his shenti and was making for the water. 

Crawly snickered. “Never seen one of these before?”

“I didn’t expect- Suddenly, right in my face-!”

“You’re the one who said come into the water- Oh, right,” Crawly said, as Aziraphale floundered through the reeds back to the bank. “Well, that’s just great. Fine! Is there a croc behind me or something?”

“No, no!” Aziraphale said, making a tit of himself as he waded in his long, heavy clothing. “All fine!”

Crawly laughed to himself. The funniest thing about Aziraphale’s crush was how _terribly_ the angel bore it. But he had been right about one thing: the water was lovely.

*

"Begone, foul fiend, and tempt these good people no more- I say!” Aziraphale suddenly said. “Your girdle!”

Crawly propped himself up on his elbows. “Not slipping, is it? It's your fault for laying it on so hard with the staff!”

“No, no. It’s just. That’s Hu’udsanu’s design. The honeycomb.”

“Honeycomb?” Crawly pulled the girdle loose – madder-dyed cloth with blackwork stitching - and looked at the embroidery. “I thought it was scales…”

“No. Honeycomb. Hu’udsanu loved honey. She was one of my first seamstresses in Sodom – you remember them? Her granddaughter runs the place now. That’s one of the designs they sell. Where did you buy it?”

“Didn’t,” Crawly lied. “Found it in a rubbish dump. Don’t want it now, if it’s all _honey_ and _angelic influence_. Urgh.”

“No, no, wear it, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “It _does_ suit you – I can see why you thought they looked like scales.”

Crawly barely heard the latter; his mind was still caught on _my dear_. “Right. All right.” He swallowed. “Actually. Probably shouldn’t.” He tossed the strip of material to Aziraphale. “More than my hide’s worth if I get caught wearing the results of angelic whatever. Call it your prize for winning this round. You can offer it as proof that you got the better of me, and I just slithered away like the snake I am.”

“Crawly, I-“ Aziraphale was twisting the girdle in his hands. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, fine.” Crawly shrugged aggressively. “Just have my own shit going on, you know. Got my own successful little businesses!”

Aziraphale was frowning. “I’m sure you do… Are you sure you don’t-“

“Positive,” Crawly said, and vanished. He didn’t teleport – the energy that needed was way beyond him – but he wanted to be invisible so Aziraphale wouldn’t know what direction he’d gone off in. He wanted a decade or two to think.

But it meant he saw the way Aziraphale smoothed the girdle between his fingers, holding it as though it was something precious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dal is Sumerian for 'footrace', and the name I give to the Royal Game of Ur in my fics. If you want to play online, there's a nifty site [here!](https://www.yourturnmyturn.com/java/ur/index.php)
> 
> This chapter turned out to be inspired a great deal by the best Enemies-to-Friends fics ever written in this fandom, [Even in Laughter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/179936) and [Hope Deferred](https://archiveofourown.org/works/179937) by [Daegaer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer). If you haven't read them, read them immediately; if you have, reread them again! And then read everything else Daegaer has ever written. These two fics are the origin of Aziraphale's seamstresses, and the line "Crawly didn’t know whether it would help or hurt. To see one more naïve bastard Fall because they hung around with the wrong person" is entirely an homage to them, which are hilarious and so in-character and just _perfect_. You have no idea how difficult it was not to use Crawly's standard greeting in this fic, but it's a joke that you should see for yourselves in the originals!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you so much for all your comments! <3 I haven't replied because I wanted to get this next chapter done as soon as possible so I could concentrate on work, so please accept my sincere apologies - I love replying to comments and chatting about theories, but they take me a long time!
> 
> CW: It's time to return to Sodom, so there's discussion of rape throughout, but nothing graphic. Also, Crawly being a manipulative little shit.

Aziraphale stank. Usually he smelt… _inhuman_ : a too-clean scent, soap and waterlilies, but very much _not_ a human smell.

Today, he smelt like a demon. He smelt like ashes and brimstone.

He was already drunk when Crawly found him in the tavern in Jericho. Crawly sobered him up enough to get the horrible story out of him: no one had been able to miss the cataclysm, of course. Sodom, Admah, and Zeboim, wiped off the map. And Gomorrah, with its date palms and the Cock-Tail Tavern. Now just so much glass.

He hadn’t heard about the rape gang that set its sights on Aziraphale and Gabriel, though. Not that he was surprised. Sodom was like a vending machine for damned souls. Whenever Crawly was below his quota he’d make himself look softer and younger – gender didn’t matter, only vulnerability and novelty – start crying and asking for directions in the main square, and then just wait for the inevitable fun to begin.

He’d liked to make a night of it. Dress up. He’d bought a black and red girdle for it, once. The blood won't show on that, he'd thought, and there was always plenty of blood. It was the same one Aziraphale was wearing around his waist.

It worked out quite handily with Aziraphale’s seamstresses, who were all well-warded and who carried daggers which Aziraphale had gifted them with besides, but after every Quota Night things calmed down for about five years, before the men of Sodom grew complacent again.

He hadn’t heard about the handful of survivors either. Nor about God’s ‘mercy’ in saying She’d call the whole thing off if She could spot ten decent people in the place.

Crawly was cynical about just how merciful this had been. Once God made up Her mind to obliterate someone She generally followed through. Giving Sodom a chance (and, knowing Sodom, a fucking slim one) … It made Crawly’s breath sting in his lungs. It gave him the feeling of thrashing uselessly in a trap – the glimpse of hope – the death of it – the helplessness, the inevitability.

Just like Falling.

Poor old angel, he thought, looking at Aziraphale. What he’d felt in Sodom was but a ghost of what Falling felt like.

“What about your seamstresses?”

Aziraphale’s face crumpled. His chin wobbled, his eyes brimmed. Crawly realised with horror that he was about to _cry_. “I asked if I could warn them! I said that, that Raphael himself had said they were- you remember? But Gabriel wouldn’t- He said that it wasn’t in the mission brief. That God was counting, so if they were truly righteous the whole city would be spared. If I’d taught them properly, then they’d count among the ten righteous, and everyone would be saved! So it’s- it’s my fault, Crawly! It’s all my fault!”

“Hey, no,” Crawly said. Aziraphale was blubbering now, pouring himself another drink, and Crawly gingerly patted his back. “Nah. Come on. God had made up Her mind to do it already. Remember the Flood? And how many seamstresses did you have in Sodom anyway?”

“Th-three. Achsah had gone to- to Damascus, with a c-caravan…”

“Well, there you go. How many were in this guy Lot’s family?”

“Four. Wife and two daughters.”

“See? I bet all your seamstresses were plenty righteous, there just weren’t enough of them. Seven righteous in Sodom, and only one of them a man. Typical.”

Aziraphale sniffed and dashed tears from his eyes. “Do you think so?”

“Course. You’re a great teacher of…” He made a face. “Righteousness.”

“One of them was there with her boyfriend,” Aziraphale said. “In the crowd. I put it into her head to tell the others to _run_ , just to leave everything and _run_.” He looked at Crawly beseechingly. “Do you think she…?”

“Yeah,” Crawly said. “Yeah, probably. Definitely. Full force angelic suggestion, heaven of a thing.”

Aziraphale sighed in gratitude, and then _took Crawly’s hand_. The angel’s was both warm and cool, somehow, and so _soft_. “You really think so?”

“Sure. Go on, finish your drink.” Aziraphale obeyed him, and the absence of his hand felt cold on Crawly’s palm. “So then what happened?”

“Lot said- he went out and said, please don’t rape my guests. It’s bad manners.”

“It is that.”

“But then- then he said, I’ve got two virgin daughters!” Aziraphale suddenly shouted, attracting some interest. “He said- well, I told them, don’t you worry my dears, I promise I won’t let anything happen to you. The youngest, she was- but the _eldest_ , oh, she was so angry, and I couldn’t blame her, but I didn’t know then whether Lot didn’t count as righteous any more, or-“

“Don’t overthink it,” Crawly said. “Six or seven… Doesn’t matter. What happened with the men?”

“They were beginning to get a bit rowdy. Gabriel wanted to go out and start lecturing them, but time was getting on. I blinded them all.” Aziraphale looked a bit green. “It was the first thing I could think of to let us all escape. But… Maybe I should have let Gabriel kill them all. That way their last thoughts would be just- You know. Snuffed out. Not a clue what had happened. Instead they all panicking and blind and shouting while it all started, and- and was that a cruelty?”

“They were a bunch of rapists, Aziraphale,” Crawly said. “Again with the overthinking. Let them feel helpless for a bit, boo hoo hoo who cares? That’s what they’re all feeling down in Hell now anyway.”

Aziraphale wrung out the tattered hem of his himation. “It just doesn’t feel right. But none of it feels right.”

Crawly topped up his wine. “But you got Lot and his family out, right? Was the lightshow Gabriel?”

Aziraphale shook his head and drank. He held the cup with both hands. Crawly noted that they were shaking. “Sandalphon. He was the one who was. All the smiting.”

“Sandalphon. Urgh. I remember him. Tongue so far up Gabriel’s arse he’s licking his tonsils?” Crawly saw understanding begin to dawn over Aziraphale’s face like sunrise over a midden-heap. The angel had a tendency to become more and more literal in his thinking the deeper he fell into his cups. “No, no, ignore that, don’t think about it-“

“ _Why would-_ “

“I told you to ignore it!” Crawly said.

“Crawly, the things you think of – honestly, and I thought _my_ mind went to odd places sometimes!” Aziraphale stared into space for a moment, no doubt revisiting the odd places. It was another habit Crawly had noticed. The angel would sometimes lose track of a conversation and stare at something only he could see. It got worse when he was drunk, which meant that Crawly was winning.

Crawly snapped his fingers. Aziraphale blinked, and visibly wrenched himself back to Jericho. “In any case… Oh, yes. Sandalphon. Odious, slimy bugger.” Aziraphale winced. “Not bugger. Git? No, that’s- that’s unkind to poor little bastards. Any ideas?”

“Cunt, fucker, bastard itself, whoreson-“

“No!” Aziraphale wailed. “No, no, no, none of them! Crawly!”

“You’re the one who asked a demon for help with swearwords.”

“Not- He’s an odious… odious.”

Crawly gave him a blank stare. “He’s an odious.”

“That’s right.” Aziraphale suddenly beamed – in Crawly’s eyes, the whole room filled with sunlight whenever he did, no matter the weather or the time of day. “A blighter! An odious blighter!”

“Perfect. Got there in the end.” Crawly topped up Aziraphale’s cup and changed his own wine to water.

Aziraphale’s smile was dying as he remembered why they were drinking. “Ah… Yes. Well. I’m sure you saw it all. The worst thing was… You know Sandalphon?”

“The odious blighter.”

“Right. In fact, if-“ Aziraphale looked around, the worst dissimulator Crawly had ever seen, and leant in close. “If he weren’t an angel? I’d almost have said he was _enjoying_ it.”

“No,” said Crawly. “You don’t say.”

“I know it’s hard to believe,” Aziraphale said, with what he obviously thought was a very knowing look. “But, but don’t say anything. You won’t say anything, will you?”

“Who would I say it to?” Crawly pointed out.

“Ah. Yes. Right. Well. We got Lot and the others out of the city, and we were all running across the plain. I was holding the girls’ hands. I wanted to bring up the rear-“

“As I used to say to your seamstresses.”

Aziraphale frowned. “What?”

“No, too soon. Don’t worry. I said, let’s drink to your seamstresses.”

“Oh, right,” Aziraphale said, and held it up. “To Elisheba, Keziah, and Bithiah.”

“Hope you lived,” Crawly said, and drank. Nice save.

Aziraphale drained his cup. It was small, but not _that_ small. He’d be paralytic if he kept up this pace, Crawly thought, and topped him up.

“Where was I?”

“You were running.”

“Right, yes. I just remember saying, _don’t look back, just focus on running, don’t stop anywhere on the plain, don’t stop running until you reach the mountains, don’t look at it_ , you know – bad enough that they could _hear_ , they’d never stop being able to see it if they looked back, they’d- _I_ can never unsee it, so _they’d_. They’d.”

Crawly, who prided himself on a rather more accurate understanding of human nature, thought that telling someone not to look at something was a sure-fire way to get them to stop and stare, but he tactfully didn’t point this out. “What happened, angel?”

Aziraphale looked wretched. “Edith turned around. Lot’s wife. She looked back and- And Sandalphon. He turned her into salt, Crawly.”

He’d misheard. He must have misheard. “Salt?”

“A pillar of salt. More. More like a statue, but… but rough.”

Not as rough as Aziraphale’s voice was right now. “ _Why_?”

Aziraphale scrubbed at his face. “Because he- Oh, Lord. He said that she disobeyed an order. From God’s messenger. Even I counted as Her messenger, and Edith had- I didn’t mean it to be an order, Crawly. I didn’t mean that.”

“Of course you didn’t!” Crawly had kept his anger on a pretty short lead since he’d arrived in Jericho, but wasn’t that just typical? “For fuck’s sake, _anyone_ would realise that you meant it as encouragement, not- No, bad enough that he’s such a brimstone-happy thug, but to imply it was your fault? No, angel. Don’t listen to him. Listen to _me_.”

Aziraphale was staring at him with eyes that were beginning to cross. He was swaying, just a little, and he was looking at Crawly with open adoration.

A chill ran up Crawly’s spine and settled around his brainstem. It brought clarity with it. It brought the memory of purpose.

He reached out and cupped Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale smiled so warmly that a tear fell from his brimming eyes; Crawly brushed it away with his thumb and pretended not to notice Aziraphale’s shocked inhalation. “It’ss all right. It’ll be all right, my angel. Come on, let’ss cheer you up. Talk about something elsse for a bit.”

Aziraphale sniffed and gave what approximated for a brave smile. It made something in Crawly’s stomach flip, and Crawly ignored it. He filled their cups instead.

He was careful. He told a funny story about Adam for the next two cups. He’d been selling Hell the concept of an angelic traitor for fifteen hundred years, the dream of someone on the inside who could be bought; it wouldn’t do to be hasty and send his best source of information running.

Once Aziraphale was smiling again, Crawly wiped non-existent tears of laughter from his eyes. “Eve always wass the brains of that particular operation. Ah, Ssatan. Sspeaking of Eden, though – I’ve forgotten, what was the name of that Cherub again? The one who gave them his sword?”

Aziraphale dropped his cup. The purple stain ran right down his front. “Oh- oh-“

“Let me,” Crawly said, and waved his hand. Nothing happened. Bugger, all the _holy_ smoke and _holy_ ash and _holy_ brimstone staining the thing must be interfering with his demonic powers. “I’ll make you a new one.”

“No!” Aziraphale shouted; this earned them a chorus of yells from around the tavern. “No, you can’t _– not allowed._ No.”

“Fine, fuck, whatever,” Crawly said, holding his hands up. The chill in his spine reminded him to dial it back. Restrain himself. Who knew when he’d next hit the jackpot of Aziraphale drunk _and_ devastated _and_ besotted with him? “Sorry. Sorry. We’ll find a laundress later. Sorry, angel.” He risked touching Aziraphale’s arm and gave him an apologetic smile.

The one Aziraphale gave in return was more tremulous, but it would do. Crawly refilled their cups. “Here.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale had reached the point of sloppiness with his wine; he was back to holding the cup with two hands again. “…m’not allowed to talk about it.”

“About the ssword?” Crawly leant his elbow on their table, blocking out the rest of the tavern. Nowhere for Aziraphale to look but into his eyes… “What was his name? What happened to him?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Not allowed.”

“Is he sstill an angel?” Crawly asked gently.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale whispered. “Must be. I’d know, otherwise, right?”

“Right,” said Crawly. “Someone… missing from the Host. And I’d know if we had someone join us right after Eden too. So he must still be an angel.”

Aziraphale nodded. His face was twisting. “I _can’t,_ Crawly, I can’t talk about it! If Gabriel found out- you don’t understand-”

“I thought we were friends,” Crawly said softly. Woundedly.

“We _are_ ,” Aziraphale said. His voice was cracking. He groped half-blindly for Crawly’s hand. “We are. But I’m _not allowed_. You don’t _understand_.”

“Can’t even remind me of his name?” Crawly said. His jaw was tight.

“I have to go.” Aziraphale knocked over the wine again in his hurry to stagger to his feet. “I have to go – let go, Crawly, I have to, have to go-“

“Hey! Aziraphale!”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Aziraphale said, tripping over his own knees. He lunged out of the door, running in earnest, and Crawly threw his clay cup at the wall.

“Oi!” said the owner of the bar, and wisely decided to back down when he saw Crawly’s face.

Fuck! Fuck and bless and Heaven and salvation! Crawly threw the second cup for good measure; the clay shattered very satisfyingly. It was all right, he told himself. Aziraphale might be too drunk to even remember half the conversation. Probably too drunk to sober himself up. Maybe he’d go and discorporate himself through straightforward alcohol poisoning.

Crawly was going to find out the name of that bloody Cherub. There were other ways to make Aziraphale talk. There was more than one way to skin an angel.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm so sorry for not replying to comments yet - I love them all, and I love you all! Thank you, thank you, thank you. As ever, work is a sword of Damocles dangling over my head, and I wanted to get this chapter done in what little free time I have. Please accept it with my apology!
> 
> Some people were wondering in the comments to last chapter: don't worry, Crawly was 100% killing the would-be rapists in Sodom. The intention to assault someone was damnation enough, so Crawly lured them into an alleyway and murdered them all with extreme prejudice. He might not like killing _kids_ , but in the book violence is something he enjoys and is good at!
> 
> In this chapter, there's a few bits of Ancient Egyptian: Waset is Thebes, modern Luxor; a 'sau' was a magician; the 'rn' was a secret true name; the 'was' was a sceptre and symbol of power, possibly originally a dried bull's penis; the 'ba', 'ka', 'akh', and 'skhm' are all parts of the soul, the Egyptian conception of which was complicated as fuck and not really important here. Heka was the god of magic, and also the name for magic in general.
> 
> The slave-trading caravan is the one due to pick up Joseph in Genesis 37!

The next time Crawly saw Aziraphale was in a meadow between Tel Kabri and Tel Megiddo. The springs made the countryside lush with grass and flowers, and the angel was lying in the midst of a riot of green and blue and yellow. His eyes were closed, and his nose was pink.

Crawly gave himself a moment to look. The angel looked quite nice here. Or maybe it was just familiarity. More and more humans, being born and dying every day, and it was nice to have a few constants around the place. “The angel in his abature.”

Aziraphale opened his eyes and raised his head. “The snake in the grass.” He stood up, brushing leaves from his back. There were grass-stains on his white robe. He’d managed to get the wine and brimstone smell out of it, Crawly thought, but the laundering had taken its toll on the old thing; the gold embroidery was dull, and the material was thin and ghostly. It was the colour of ivory now, rather than lightning. And there was the slightest shade of rose within some folds of the himation.

“I’m glad you got it clean,” Crawly said, “and that I ran into you. I’m sorry for whatever I said last time. I remember you running off at something, but I was so pissed… Shalom?”

Aziraphale’s shoulders inched down, and he smiled. “Shalom. It’s all right. I was too. In fact, I- it’s so embarrassing. My body _ejected_ some of it. It was the worst thing I’ve ever tasted!”

Crawly grinned. “Oh, I’ve done that! Well, welcome to a very exclusive club! I think we’re the only two preternaturals who’ve experienced that particular delight.”

“It was… it was _very enjoyable_ ,” Aziraphale attempted, and Crawly laughed.

“Look at you, being sarcastic!” he said, flinging an arm around Aziraphale’s neck. “My angel, all grown up in the ways of human humour, I’m so proud.”

“I’m still not very good at _recognising_ it,” Aziraphale said. His shoulders were stiff again, but he hadn’t shrugged Crawly off, and his face was pink with pleasure. “Was _that_ more sarcasm?”

“Afraid not. I’m sincerely proud of you. In fact, does Kabri have a tavern? My treat.”

*

They were running into each other more and more. Uruk, Mari, Damascus, Susa and Hattusa, Byblos, Rey, Tyre, Kirkuk, Ankara – even a place far out to the East in Yanshi, which turned into a week-long restaurant extravaganza. And, of course, Waset.

They were running into each other every decade or so now. It was worrying. Crawly told himself that it was natural that they’d be sent to the same places – they were meant to be thwarting each other, after all. And instead of running in the opposite direction as soon as he scented angel on the air, he now picked up his pace and started thinking about the funny things he wanted to share with Aziraphale. That was probably a minor contribution.

So when he smelt something on the air as he traipsed north through Canaan, he didn’t panic. Aziraphale got posted to Canaan far more than he did. Apparently there was some family of nomads whom Heaven was keeping an eye on. Aziraphale said it was all something ineffable. Crawly replied that he was glad Hell preferred to send him to deal with kings and warlords so he could hang around in their palaces.

He’d not been expecting this, though. A caravan of Ismaelites, leading camels loaded with spices and balm and incense, and a small gaggle of slaves spread throughout, tied to camels by their bound hands.

Aziraphale gamely attempted to wave to him anyway. “Hello, Crawly.”

“Hi, angel,” Crawly replied in Elamite. Least likely for the slavers to accidentally overhear anything. He raised an eyebrow at the ropes. “Want a rescue?”

“Oh, no, thank you. I’m on a mission.”

“You got yourself captured to be sold into slavery… on purpose?”

“Precisely. There’s someone I need to look after. Apparently this is the caravan he’s going to be joining, and I need to make sure he gets to Egypt.”

“More ineffable bullshit, then?”

“Crawly! More…” Aziraphale shrugged. Crawly was walking back with him to carry on the conversation, invisible to the humans. “Classified.”

“Right. Great job at that. What’re you going to do when your guy gets to Egypt?”

Aziraphale smiled proudly. “I only have one charge who has to be delivered. The rest I’ll free, of course. Though I’m trying to persuade one of the Ishmaelites to have a change of heart and see the error of his ways.”

Crawly laughed. “Good luck!”

“You never know! But yes, it’ll probably be a good old-fashioned miracle instead.”

“Do you know where in Egypt you’re going?”

“Wherever the Pharaoh is. You’ll know better than me, if you’re coming from the south. Is it Avaris?”

“No! The Hyksos are out. Capital’s Waset again.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Aziraphale said. “Waset’s very pretty. Where are you off to?”

“Just Tyre, then south again.” Crawly tried his best to sound casual. “I could probably make a detour to Waset. I know a landlady there who’s happy to rent me a place.”

“That’d be lovely,” Aziraphale said, with such an easy and sincere smile. “If you’re in the area, I mean.”

“I’ll tell Hell I’ve heard Heaven has something going down in the area and I’m off thwarting. Do you think you’ll get there before the Inundation?”

“I should think so. Before the end of Low Water, even.”

“I’ll try to be in Waset for the Days Upon The Year,” Crawly said, referring to the period (usually five days) which kept the lunar and civil calendars in sync. “Very dangerous days. Lots of gods’ birthdays.”

“You can be very obnoxious, you know?” Aziraphale said, but the crinkles around his eyes indicated his amusement. “I’ll find you in Waset then.”

“All right. If you manage to persuade one of the slavers to the side of good, I’ll buy the first drinks.”

“I won’t wish you good luck in Tyre, of course, but see you soon!” Aziraphale said, attempting another uncomfortable half-wave as Crawly peeled away from the caravan again.

*

Crawly had a good laugh when he got to the slave market in Waset. The stage for displaying the goods looked like it had been obliterated by a meteor, and the ensuing riot and escape of over a hundred products was all anyone could talk about.

Still, it meant that he won the bet and appealing to slave-traders’ consciences hadn’t worked. Stupid old angel, he thought fondly. He found his usual place, washed the journey off himself, and asked his landlady to wake him on the Birthday of Osiris.

She did, having known Master Crawly for more than sixty years; he healed whatever illnesses she had whenever he visited purely for convenience’s sake. Took too long to properly train up a new hostess. She brought him breakfast of some kind of fowl and bread, and told him off for planning on going out in such unlucky days.

“I’m not worried about Sekhmet; she owes me one,” Crawly said, popping a date into his mouth. “I might be back late – be sure to wait up for me!” Then he went out into the city, nose up to catch Aziraphale’s peculiar non-scent.

By noon he’d smelt nothing. He stopped smelling with his nose and began to smell with his tongue instead. The various stinks of the city became dramatically brighter, but there was still no sign of Aziraphale.

No recent sign, he should have thought. He went back to the slave-market, and the ruins of the old display-stage all had traces of ozone and soap-and-waterlily about them. With a wave of his hand he gave the wood of the new stage rot, and began to trace the light angel-taste in the air.

Ah, here it was stronger, he thought as he came to the entrance of the red light distinct. Normally he would have laughed , but today something felt very wrong. He’d known Aziraphale for long enough that in the same city he ought to be able to track him down without any difficulty. But now night was falling swiftly, and the only scent he could catch was old and… light. As though Aziraphale had run through here, rather than lingered…

He plunged into the dirty streets. The whole city was set out in a grid, so he decided to take the area systematically, and found what he was looking for beside a small courtyard shrine to Wepset.

The mingled physical smell and psychic imprint hit him like he’d just run into a brick wall. The soap-and-waterlily (now with a hint of something sweet – date wine?), inhuman non-scent of Aziraphale, and the gut-wrenching, migraine-inducing strangling of some potent, aggressive magic. And, beneath that, blood.

Crawly leant against the alley wall, willing his headache to lessen. He might not be an expert user of dark magic, but he was still a demon, and his will was greater.

It was human, he could taste that much. More subtle and calculating than a demon’s magic. Humans didn’t expect magic to work, deep down, so they hedged it and backed it up with as many rituals and incantations as they could.

A human had used magic against Aziraphale, and had won.

His first thought should have been that he hoped the angel had finally been discorporated. In fact, no thought occurred to him at all. Only blinding, searing rage.

Only _he_ was allowed to try to kill Aziraphale. That angel was _Crawly’s_ to fuck with, no one else’s. Whatever magician had done this was about to have a very shitty night.

The days being so unlucky, very few people were risking being out and about. Crawly grabbed the arm of the first person he saw and stopped her dead. “Where’s the _sau_?”

“Which one?”

“The closest.”

The woman’s face twisted in distaste. “Intef. He’s around the corner, on East Street. There’s a _wadjet_ and a _was_ over his door.”

“We’re in Waset. There’s a _was_ over every door.”

The woman shook his hand off. “I don’t mean the sign. I mean a real one.”

Crawly frowned. “A pizzle?”

“You asked for the closest. I wouldn’t go to him if you paid me.” Her face softened a little. “It’s a little walk, but I’m on my way to visit Djhutmose. He’s a far better _sau_. He’ll help you with what you need. You can walk with me, if you like.”

“No. It’s Intef I want.” Crawly manifested a gold ring in his hand and gave it to the woman, as well as glimpse of his true eyes. “Thanks for your help. Walk fast.”

She didn’t – she ran instead, holding onto the ring. As she’d said, Crawly quickly found the right place: whitewashed, with an eye of Horus painted above it, and a dried bull’s penis nailed to the lintel. Charming stuff. Even without it Crawly would have known he had the right place. The press of magic was thick in the air.

He stepped into the workshop.

There were the usual things, the staples of every _heka_ practitioner: carved scarabs and ankhs, woven ropes with magically significant knots. Hens’ livers and crocodile testicles and dead nightjars. Lots of dried flowers hanging from the ceiling beams: senepe, African violet, elder, daisies, ankh-amu, Isis-footprint, acacia.

Along with lots and lots more dried bull penises. Spells of power and domination were a speciality of Intef’s, then. The pizzles and the wax figures (generic, ready to be primed) painted a nasty picture. This wasn’t your ordinary friendly neighbourhood _sau_. Along one wall were shelves and shelves of jars, each one labelled. Blood – goat. Blood – monthly. Blood – murderers. Blood – murder victims. Blood – dogs. Hair – murderers. Hair – corpses. Hair – executed. Hair – children. Nails. Semen. Oil. Bile.

Nasty, but not too worrying. He was lucky it was an ordinary magician; Crawly had had run-ins with the priests of Serqet before, whose speciality was dealing with snakes and scorpions, and that might have been a more difficult rescue.

Not _rescue-_ rescue. Whatever.

The _sau_ himself came from some back room. “Can I help you?”

“You’re Intef?” The man nodded. “The god came to me in a dream and said that I was to go to you concerning a spirit.”

Intef spread his hands and bared his teeth in a smile. “No spirit here. Are you sure it was Heka?”

“Quite sure.” Crawly held out his hand, and in his palm appeared a ruby the size of a crocodile egg and the colour of anger. It was carved like a scarab pectoral. “He gave me this, to trade. He bows to my master, and my master favours me.”

“Heka bows to no one.”

Crawly shrugged. “If you’re sure.”

Intef exhaled, and took the scarab. He beckoned, and led Crawly into the dimness of the back room.

There were a couple of workbenches, and then one smaller table, right under the skylight. Nice and dramatic. Four more bloody pizzles nailed down in a square, and in the centre, a small alabaster jar, sealed with wax.

“How did you catch it?”

“I cut into a child. It was attracted by the screams and the blood,” Intef said. “Then it stepped into the skin circle, and I forced it into the jar using incense.”

“What incense?”

“Minoan. Expensive.” Intef’s eyes were glittering. “But it refuses to give its _rn_.”

The _rn_ was a being’s secret name; with it, a human could have control over even a powerful spirit. Even an angel. “Thus the wax? To seal it in?”

“Precisely. Unsafe to let it out, without the _rn_.”

“I’m from the far north. We have ways of controlling spirits without the name.” He reached into the circle. The barrier was more easily breached from the outside, but it still gave him a little trouble. “Good spell.”

“Heka is strong with me. He must favour you too, if you can break it.”

As soon as Crawly touched the alabaster he felt a spike of terror run up his spine. His head was suddenly filled with noise – chanting, gabbling, a screaming silence. He slowly brought the jar up to his ear. “Angel?” he said in Hebrew.

The noise stopped. There was a ringing silence. Then, soft and high-pitched, a reply: “Serpent?”

Clever Aziraphale, Crawly thought with a hot blooming in his chest. Even in the midst of whatever that psychic _thing_ was, he didn’t want to hint at Crawly’s _rn_. “That’s right – I’ll have you out,” he said.

He lowered the jar and switched back to Egyptian. “And to release it, I just break the wax?”

“It spoke to you!” Intef said. “What was that incantation?”

“You can have the scarab or the knowledge. Not both.”

Intef glared. But he handed back the pectoral. “Knowledge. Knowledge of how to control the spirits. Knowledge of how to bend them to my will.”

“The jar?”

“Break the wax. If you can control the spirit then, good luck to you.”

Crawly nodded. “Right. There's a god more powerful than Heka. Pledge yourself to him, and he’ll give you gifts of which you’ve never even dreamt. Offer your _ba_ and your _ka_ , your _akh_ , your _skhm_ , to the god named Satan. He’s more powerful than Anubis or Osiris. He protects his acolytes, and brings them to his own realm.”

Intef nodded. “I will. I will offer them.”

“Great,” said Crawly; the pectoral scarab turned into a curved knife, and in a flash he slashed it across Intef’s throat. The _sau_ gasped, floundered, and fell.

Crawly vanished the blood from his clothes and pictured his own rooms: all clean plaster and wood and not a single fucking bull’s penis to be seen. He held the alabaster jar close to his chest and teleported them both to safety.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Crawly does something shitty in this chapter. There's nothing graphic, and I don't want to spoil it, but to quote Leslie Knope, he has an idea. "It's very uncool, but it's not illegal, technically. But it IS a dick move." (It is also, these days, actually illegal.)
> 
> As ever, I will try to reply to comments as soon as I can, but I put off work to finish this chapter (and I'm still not happy with it, might edit bits at some point in the future), and now I really have to return to it! I apologise in advance. For a lot of things. XD

As soon as they were safe in his room Crawly clawed at the binding spell Intef had scratched into the wax seal. The alabaster jar exploded with the force of Aziraphale’s escape.

Aziraphale’s physical form reformed itself, and the energy it generated blinded Crawly and made his long hair whip about his face. He blinked three times – an unprecedented number – and focused on the newly resolidified angel in front of him.

Shit, Aziraphale looked terrible.

Grey-skinned, clammy, wild-eyed; he tried to scratch at Crawly with fingers like talons, and Crawly caught him by the wrists. “Whoa, hey, hey! You’re all right. You’re out.”

Aziraphale blinked. “ _Crawly_?” He made a strange wheezing sound deep in his chest. “I don’t know this- where is this?”

“My room. On Market Street, in Waset. Remember?”

“Waset?” Aziraphale looked around. “I was in- I was…” He looked down at Crawly’s hands. “I can feel you…”

“Well, yeah.”

“You- I was-“ He tried to move his hands, and Crawly didn’t let him. So Aziraphale bent his head, and pressed his cheek to the back of Crawly’s hand. “Real?”

Crawly’s treacherous heart leapt right up into his throat. “Of course I’m real. It’s me. Crawly…” Aziraphale’s chest was heaving and his breathing was ragged. He wasn’t screaming, but Crawly could _hear_ screaming. Or feel it. It was _there_ , that he knew. “You’re all right,” he said again, making his voice softer, firmer. “Some bloody magician. He’s dead. Can’t hurt you again.”

Aziraphale’s whole corporation was shaking. “You’re not a vision…”

“Oh, thanks,” Crawly said. “I’ve been running around Waset all day looking for you!”

“No, I mean… You’re not. Not unreal.”

Aziraphale’s voice was strange. Slow and slurred; he searched for words, instead of vainly trying to restrain the flood of precision and fussiness. He kept being distracted, mid-syllable, looking around for something in terror.

“No,” Crawly said, more gently. “Not unreal. There was a child…”

Aziraphale went as stiff as a marble statue and his eyes stretched wide. “Screaming.”

“Right. There was a _sau_ in the red-light quarter. He must have divined there was someone supernatural around the place. He hurt a child and you went in to rescue it, right? Can you remember what day that was?”

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut. “Um. It’s the day before Msyt. Tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve.”

The gods’ birthdays fell between New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. “It’s the Birthday of Osiris,” Crawly said. “Yesterday was Msyt. So it’s been two days.”

“Two days? No, no, nonono-“ Aziraphale tried to pull his arms free again, and Crawly could felt the wind from the angel’s wings buffeting him all the way from the spiritual plane.

More worrying than that was the light building behind Aziraphale’s eyes. The crackle of electricity on his skin, the unmistakable smell of ozone in the air.

Shit _,_ he was going to blow.

“White, it was white, inside- I couldn’t get out!”

The walls of the building were beginning to shake. Aziraphale looked crazed, gadfly-stung; he tried to wrench himself free with a snarl, and Crawly put his arms around the angel to pin his arms.

“I know, I know, I know! I know. Hey. You’re out now. And the jar’s smashed to pieces, and that fucker of a sau is dead.” Crawly could feel Aziraphale’s fury and panic like a garrote around his neck. He could feel it in his blood, like the opposite of his own venom: turning everything to water, then to steam. “ _Please,_ angel. There’s a lot of civilians in this block…”

“Longer – _can’t_ have been two days- Crawly, I don’t know, I don’t _know_ -“

“It’ss all right. Nothing to know. Shussh…” He rubbed the angel’s back. The robe was thin and ghostly with age, and Aziraphale’s skin felt cold beneath it. “Try and calm down. Just… breathe in and out.”

Crawly could feel Aziraphale’s face pressed into his skin, where his neck met his shoulder. The angel’s hair smelt of animal terror. He stroked it. “All right now.”

“You rescued me…” Aziraphale whispered. Crawly didn’t know whether he could hear his incredulity, or feel it.

“Don’t say it too loud,” Crawly said softly. He swayed them a little, side to side. “’Course I did, angel. I’m a demon, not a monster. Do you really think I’d have left you alone in there?”

Aziraphale tried to pull back. It was without any of the desperation or violence of before, so Crawly let him, because apparently all that Aziraphale wanted to do was stare at him.

Crawly looked back. Aziraphale’s eyes were the colour of the glass for which Egypt was famous. The colour of the Nile in the hours before dawn, or the sea before a storm; the colour of the underside of an olive leaf; the colour of living papyrus. The colour the Egyptians called _w’dj_ , fresh _._ “The turquoise of the stars,” as some poem or other said.

They shone like stars too. Brightness that could only be hinted at on Earth. And right now they were shining for _Crawly_ , like he was some kind of hero. They shone with awe and adoration, the kind of look any decent angel should only direct to God. Angels could Fall, for looking at someone else with eyes like that…

The thought tasted like bile. Aziraphale’s loving gaze didn’t make him feel loved; it made him feel despised. God had cast him out just for _listening_ to Lucifer – who was still an angel at that point! – just for going to a meeting or two out of intellectual curiosity and boredom, no idolatrous emotions involved! And here was Aziraphale, staring at a _demon_ with such offensive tenderness, wings very pointedly not on fire.

He didn’t know, later, whether that feeling arrived before the idea, or after. Whether it was a justification or an excuse for what followed. All he knew, when he turned the memory over and over in his mind like a coin, was that Aziraphale had looked at him with love, and that was when the idea of kissing Aziraphale flashed in Crawly’s mind with an icy, intoxicating clarity.

He didn’t seduce. He tempted. In his mind, there was a difference. Seduction had more intention behind it. Temptation was… impersonal. Temptation was just testing someone.

Still, there was a first time for everything.

He stroked Aziraphale’s hair again. “I couldn’t have left you there. I’d have torn apart this city to find you. You’re the only person I can talk to, angel. My only friend…”

Aziraphale sighed against his wrist, and his breath was warm. So were his lips, when Crawly leant forwards and kissed him.

It didn’t take very long. Aziraphale didn’t even remove his robe. Maybe he didn’t know he was expected to. It was a series of quick, fumbling things, Crawly using his hands and guiding Aziraphale’s. He’d wised up a bit since the Flood. There was an enjoyable spot of frottage, which Crawly had fancied trying for a few decades. Aziraphale was gratifyingly impressed by the size and shape of Crawly’s current genital manifestation. However much control Aziraphale had over his corporation when it came to burnings or beheadings, it did _not_ carry over into sex; Aziraphale blushed and stammered when Crawly voiced this, and Crawly laughed and kissed him again.

No, the angel was artless, but surprisingly lacking in hesitance. He threw himself into the experience with the recklessness that Crawly was beginning to associate with him, and voiced and analysed his pleasure in exactly the same way he did when tasting a new spice-cake or mixed drink.

And he never once looked away from Crawly’s face. And the joy in his expression grew until the room was noon-bright.

Crawly was beginning to feel a bit sick. He lay on the flax-stuffed mattress, Aziraphale curled up against him, head on his shoulder.

Crawly was generally optimistic, but he wasn’t a fool. He believed in back-up plans. He believed in preparation. He believed in insurance policies. He might never even need to use it! But the relief of _having_ it…

But what would he lose, to gain it?

Aziraphale interrupted his silent deliberations. “That was so wonderful. That was quite amazing.”

“Yeah. It was great.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand why the humans are so mad-cracked on it! That thing you did, with the twisting, and the olive oil-“

“It was just a hand-job, angel,” Crawly said. His stomach squirmed. “At least it took your mind off everything…”

“It certainly did. It’s so clever. Thank you,” Aziraphale said, as though Crawly had just brought him a particularly nice dinner.

“No worries. Don’t mention it.”

“But I have to! _Thank_ you. You _rescued_ me and then you- you touched me. Kissed me. Oh, Crawly…” Aziraphale sighed contentedly. His skin was flushed, with the slightest sheen of sweat on it. His hair was wild, curling in every direction. And he glowed. The room was filled with starlight. “No one’s ever been so kind to me.”

Oh, fuck, Crawly felt ill. He sat up suddenly, knocking Aziraphale out of the way. “Listen. Um. If you really wanted to thank me…”

Aziraphale recovered from Crawly’s abrupt movement, and sat up and smiled. “Yes?”

“I mean, I saved you today. Satan knows how long you’d’ve been stuck in that jar if I hadn’t been looking for you.”

The smile began to falter.

“You can save me in return, Aziraphale. You can help me.” Crawly stared steadfastly at the floor. “I asked you, after Sodom. About the Cherub who gave away his sword in Eden.”

He heard Aziraphale inhale. “Crawly…? I don’t understand…”

“If you really want to thank me, you can tell me his name.”

“I’m… Crawly, I’m not _allowed_. You know that.”

Crawly swallowed and looked up from the floor, at the closed shutters. Anywhere but at Aziraphale. “I need to know. If I get discorporated again, I need something to give to Hell. You don’t understand.”

Aziraphale gingerly touched Crawly’s arm. “I’m trying to. Why does it matter? He was just… just an idiot. A fool.”

“Well, he’s a fool who was willing to give away classified tech, so Hell wants to get in contact with him.”

“But… _Crawly_ -“

“For Hell’s sake, Aziraphale!” Crawly shouted. He looked at the angel and regretted it immediately. Aziraphale’s face was so white it was the same colour as his hair: somewhere between old ivory and bleached papyrus. “Stop being so stupid, for _once_! Just- just tell me who it was, and how I can contact him!”

Aziraphale’s hands were shaking again. His breath fluttered between them.

But he wasn’t Falling. Crawly found that thought and gripped it tight. “Let me spell it out for you,” he said, very quickly. “If I get discorporated again, Hell’s not going to be happy with me. I need a victory to give them. And if I can’t give them Heaven’s traitor… I can tell them I seduced an angel.”

Aziraphale’s face was slack. Crawly had seen broken corpses that looked better than him. “You wouldn’t. Crawly. You _wouldn’t.”_

“Of course I would! I’m a _demon_!” He’d expected the heat of fury. He’d expected to feel triumph at the expression on Aziraphale’s face. Instead, his voice cracked on the final word. “I’m a demon, and I’ll always be a demon, so don’t look so fucking surprised! This is what _you_ and your lot made me!” The corners of his eyes prickled. “Fucking an angel - that’s the kind of thing they’d get a real kick out of in Hell. That’s the kind of thing they’d contact Heaven to gloat over. And I can’t imagine your superiors would enjoy it as much as mine would.”

Crawly saw Aziraphale’s heart break. He saw it happen.

He shoved himself up and found his discarded shendyt. If he had to look into Aziraphale’s eyes he thought he might die. He wrapped the linen around his hips and tied it off with trembling fingers. “So, just. Just tell me his name.”

“Aziraphale.”

The angel spoke softly, in a complete monotone. Crawly did turn to look at him then. Azraphale’s eyelids were low and his face was blank.

Crawly’s mouth suddenly felt very dry. “It was a Cherub. I know it was. You’re a Principality.”

“I was created a Cherub. I was demoted. Because my negligence allowed the Serpent to tempt the humans to their destruction.”

Crawly’s face twisted, and his shook his head. “Stop, Aziraphale.”

“Stop what?” Chin wobbling, Aziraphale stood up. For a brief moment, Crawly thought his legs were going to buckle beneath him. “ _You asked_.”

Had he ever seen Aziraphale in his true form? Shit, he didn’t think he had. _Fuck._ “Stop lying!”

“I’m not lying. Though I’m afraid it was all for nothing. Because I’ll never speak to Hell. I’ll never betray Heaven.”

“Yeah, and what do you think that fuck was? I mean, you weren’t bad for a beginner, but I’d not be tempted to have another go just for the fun of it. But even a mediocre fuck with a demon makes you a pretty crap angel, doesn’t it?”

And yet he wasn’t Falling. However crap an angel Aziraphale was, God still thought Crawly had been a worse one. “If you’re telling the truth, you betrayed them in Eden too. Or were you daft enough to leave it lying around?”

“No.” Aziraphale’s breathing was ragged, and his hand was splayed across his abdomen. As though he was holding his own guts in. “I knew what I was doing.”

“You traded it?”

“I gave it away.”

The world stopped spinning. The universe was still. “What?” Crawly croaked. “You… you what?”

Aziraphale looked distraught, but his voice was like ice. “I _gave it away_.”

Crawly shook his head. “You expect me to believe that an angel just… just gave away God’s sword? Out of the goodness-“

He choked on the word. He couldn’t finish.

“They were _cold_ and there were _wild animals_. They were defenceless. That’s why I gave my sword to them. Freely. So, if you think you can _coerce_ me – blackmail me! – bad luck, old boy!”

“Hey!” said Crawly.

“Oh, you think that’s unfair?” Aziraphale suddenly shouted. “If you think I’d sell one- one _pin_ to Hell you can forget it! I’ll go up and tell Gabriel myself that we-“

Aziraphale bent over so suddenly it looked like he’d been punched in the gut. Without thinking, Crawly stepped forward to help.

Aziraphale wrenched his arm away. “Don’t touch me!” he spat. “Never touch me again!”

He should have expected it, but he'd not realised how much it would hurt. Crawly forced pain to turn into spite. “You’ve changed your tune. _Crawly, oh, Crawly_!”

He didn’t even recognise Aziraphale, some dreamy part of Crawly’s brain noticed. The angel who’d got drunk with him, who’d play-fought with him… The angel who’d kissed him, and looked at him with such wonder and love. Fuck. Love. It can’t have been _love_ …

Didn’t matter now. That angel was _gone_.

The one in front of him now made him think of a fight a few centuries ago. On the Tower of Babel, he’d see the way Aziraphale held a sword, and had idly thought he’d hate to have a real one.

“I was _going_ to say that we could still be mates,” Crawly said. “I was going to say that this had actually been a bit fun, and we could do it again if you fancied it.”

“How magnanimous.” Aziraphale was quivering. There was static electricity building in the air again – Crawly’s hair was beginning to float.

“But I see that you’re going to be uncool about this, so remember: if you discorporate me, I tell Hell everything. And Hell’ll tell Heaven. And I don’t think you want Heaven to know.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders fell. The anger visibly drained out of his eyes. He opened his mouth, and whatever it was Crawly had expected him to say, it wasn’t the worst and most wretched thing anyone had ever said to him.

“You were my first friend, Crawly.”

Aziraphale held out his hand. The sherds of Intef’s alabaster jar flew to it, reforming in the air.

They both stared at it.

“I really believed you were,” the angel whispered. “Thank you for the lesson, I suppose.”

Aziraphale walked out of the door, and Crawly was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The turquoise of the stars" is a quote from the Pyramid Texts (PT 350 §567 a-b).
> 
> With so many spy tropes in Good Omens, it was only a matter of time before Aziraphale fell victim to a honey-trap. It's just usually more literal for him.
> 
> The sex is consensual; if whatever incense Intef used to trap Aziraphale had any effect, it's worn off after 2+ days in the jar. Crawly was absolutely being a real fucker and taking advantage of Aziraphale's emotional state, but I had zero intention of portraying a sexual assault in this fic. Crawly is not an entirely reliable narrator, and he likes to play the Big Bad Demon. The blackmail is going to be the real issue between them.
> 
> As ever, Crowley and Aziraphale WILL have a happy ending. In my mind this is the mid-point of the fic - lucky 13, published on Friday the 13th! This is an Enemies-to-Lovers fic, after all; it's just that it took them a while to get to True Enemies first. Enemies to lovers to True Enemies to True Lovers!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry my hiatus was so long - I was finishing my thesis! I now return with offerings of fic, and will get on to replying to comments! <3

Crawly had the best bedroom in the building, three floors up, exiting onto the linen-shaded roof. The palms of Waset were black against the twinkling lights of the houses nearby, and the palace and temples beyond.

He heard a sob, and a muffled thud as someone staggered down the ramp.

As Aziraphale staggered.

Crawly sat on his flax-stuffed mattress, absolutely dumbfounded.

Aziraphale? _Aziraphale_?

Intellectually he’d _known_ that Aziraphale had been in Eden. Crawly had seen him taken to task for eating plums on duty. Subconsciously, that must have been why he thought Aziraphale would know the name of the Cherub.

He’d never thought, _oh, why had a Principality been lounging around in Eden with a flaming sword?_ It had been so much easier to think he’d got it wrong, that there were angels of other ranks in Eden, than to imagine Aziraphale as a Cherub.

Because he was a Principality. Definitely. Cherubim, when they weren’t in a human body… lots of wings, lots of teeth and beaks and horns. And when he’d seen Aziraphale’s body reassembling itself after he broke the seal of Intef’s jar, there’d been none of that.

A _demoted_ Cherub? How did that even _work_?

He’d known Aziraphale had been in Eden, and in over a thousand years he’d never understood what that meant. He’d had an _image_ in his head of the Cherub who’d given away his sword. Either too bold and powerful to be punished, or too cunning to even be found out. A Shemhazai who hadn’t Fallen.

He’d been there, when the Watchers had arrived in Hell. It had been during his time in the complaints department, after five years of bastinado and waiting on the rack for Ligur to remember he existed.

They’d had a Welcome Party. Balloons made of inflated lungs torn out of the sinners left writhing on the floor, that kind of thing. And when the Watchers had dropped into the sulphur pools, _plop plop plop_ , lots of screaming, the _original_ demons had leapt on them with claws and knives and shrieks of glee.

Crawly had been among them. He’d been excited. He’d slithered forward, fangs bared, ready and waiting.

It was one thing to Fall in the original Rebellion. That was dignified. But to Fall because you fancied getting some human arse and being a petty god on Earth? Gauche. Idiotic. Pathetic.

Insulting, that they’d thought themselves better than the Fallen. That they’d seen the example made of them, _and risked it anyway_.

That was what had curdled in Crawly’s gut. That was what curdled now. The cold, squirming eel of guilt died in that acid. Aziraphale _knew_ what the risks were – not even fucking humans, but fucking a _demon_! – and he did it anyway. He deserved some pain. And if God wasn’t going to give him the pain of Falling…

He hadn’t realised he’d bowed his head to rest it on his knees. Why was Aziraphale so loved, so cherished, that even with all this demonic fraternising he hadn’t Fallen?

What made Aziraphale so much better than Crawly?

*

Aziraphale stopped only to drop the black and red embroidered belt he wore on the ramp of Crawly's house. Then he ran through the streets, past the forest of pillars of the Precinct of Amun-Re, the Temple of Montu and the obelisks of Mut. He didn’t stop until his lungs were burning and he could no longer see the lights of the city. Only the stars above. Then he began to climb.

The Inundation Season would begin soon, and then the nahal bed would become a fast-flowing river instead of a safe, flat road through the desert. It cut from Waset to the Sea of Reeds almost as the crow flew, through the desert mountains. He turned north-east, to bring him up into the mountains themselves; there would be few travellers during the gods’ birthdays, but he couldn’t bear the thought of meeting even one.

He reached the top of some nameless red mountain a few hours before the sun did. Nameless to the Egyptians, he thought, though the local Kushites might call it something. Those who had survived the Hyksos. Probably not.

Aziraphale looked down at the alabaster jar in his hands. It looked so harmless – innocent, even. A kind shade of white: soft instead of blinding. Moonlight made into stone… And yet two days locked inside it had felt like… He didn’t know what Hell felt like. But it had been worse than being beheaded and burnt and poisoned.

And Crawly had found him, and saved him from it.

His shaking hands stroked the jar. He hadn’t seen the outside of it, the glyphs scratched into the alabaster. _Senet_ boardgame, water, vulture, twisted wick, grains of sand. _Mnh,_ beeswax. The jar had been used to store pellets of beeswax. For medicine, for magic dolls, or perfume…

Crawly hadn’t just taken his friend. He’d taken Aziraphale’s hope. Only now, staring finally down into the abyss of true despair, did Aziraphale realise how much he’d always been hoping to run into Crawly.

What did he have to hope for now? What did he have to look forward to?

Nothing.

Only God, and God didn’t care about him.

Why would She? What a disappointment of a child he was to Her. How ungrateful he must have seemed to Her – how arrogant, to think that he knew better about what Adam and Eve deserved.

Even now, he knew that She must be able to see him, in his wretched cowardice.

He ought to tell Heaven. He ought to _tell Heaven_. Truth and integrity and the possibility of mercy, if he was brave enough…

But he wasn’t.

Perhaps if he found _Raphael_ – Raphael might not put him in the Cube. Raphael had offered him a position in his laboratory. But would he be angry, that Aziraphale had been too afraid to take him up on his offer? And Raphael had also thought he’d deserved to be punished over Eden. He’d just tried to convince the other archangels to let him be demoted in private.

And he’d been outvoted.

Aziraphale couldn’t stop shivering. Even _Raphael_ , kind Raphael, would be disgusted by him.

For thousands of years he’d harboured a terrible secret. Deep in his being, he wondered whether he had actually deserved such a violent punishment for his mistakes. The beheadings, the amputation of his wings. The Cube. And earlier tonight that secret doubt had flared up like fire, like a star, like the sun – Crawly, a _demon_ , had said he wouldn’t be so cruel as to leave Aziraphale trapped alone. His own hidden doubt, echoed so confidently by a demon, so calmly and so tenderly, and everything had come crumbling down. Maybe the archangels had been wrong! Maybe Aziraphale hadn’t deserved such painful punishment. Maybe…

And it had been a lie. Crawly had been telling him what, in his heart of hearts, he wanted to hear. With some demonic sense he’d seen Aziraphale’s disobedience and his flawed centre, and he’d fanned the flame of it. He’d made Aziraphale drunk on the relief, the tearful joy and _relief_ that one other being in existence thought he hadn’t deserved such cruelty. That perhaps he was worthy of more. That, perhaps, he deserved some kindness.

Aziraphale dashed the tears away. It had all been a ploy. Gabriel was right; the _second_ there was some doubt in his mind that he deserved his punishment, the very moment his terror was eased even a little, he’d fallen into sin. Fornication, treachery, deceit – all of it.

The demon had at least been acting according to his demonic instincts. The greater blame lay with Aziraphale. He deserved the terror. He needed it. Gabriel had been right about everything; it was a kindness, a proper and correct kindness, that terror. That terror was all that stood between him and Falling.

He sobbed mechanically, unable to stop. He thought that he should fly to Heaven now, and tell Gabriel everything that had happened. Maybe Gabriel would be merciful. But even if he wasn’t, perhaps the Cube was better. That was what he needed. Wanted, in a strange way. Certain punishment felt preferable to this soul-destroying anxiety.

He wished he had never given away his flaming sword. If he still had it, he could have fallen on it. A much sweeter, softer fall…

The stars were bright, like wildflowers in the meadow of Heaven. The night was still, and beautiful beyond words, and it was the worst night of Aziraphale’s existence.

*

Crawly completely missed the battle of Megiddo, having got far too deep in the politicking of drinking clubs in Ugarit just down the road. To make up for it he helped the Hittites conquer Mitanni. He kept an eye on the fledgling Assyrians. Indulged in a few Mycenaean v. Minoan spats. He got yanked down to Hell for an emergency briefing on the Pharaoh suddenly turning the whole Egyptian state religion monotheistic, and he was sent up with his arse still _literally_ on fire to spend a few busy, sweaty, angry years organising coups and murders.

Even at the last, he didn’t see Aziraphale. The angel’s nasty little fingerprints were everywhere – sometimes Crawly even got a whiff of that clean, inhuman scent – but if Aziraphale was trying to avoid him he was doing a bang-up job of it.

Bloody coward. Wuss. Aziraphale had said some things, he’d said some things, but they could be grown-ups. Crawly could be gracious. Humans were rubbish drinking partners; they tended to vomit or pass out or die as soon as Crawly was getting to the good point of the evening.

If Crawly wanted to get the angel’s attention, he’d have to get _personal._ He tried to lure Aziraphale out of hiding by persuading the new Pharaoh to oppress Heaven’s favourite little humans and force them all into slavery, with no luck – not getting the Pharaoh to oppress anyone, that was hardly a stretch of the old tempting muscles – but Aziraphale remained resolutely elusive.

Crawly gave up and enjoyed a stint up north, messing with Atreus. Imagine his surprise when he returned to Egypt and discovered that the Israelites weren’t just enslaved. They were being exterminated.

The pitch of horror was such that Crawly gave up on trying to sense Aziraphale’s particular brand of neuroticism. But blood and grief heightened a demon’s senses, no matter how much Crawly hated the fact, and on his third day in the brand new city of Pi-Ramesses he was able to catch the scent of something holy and inhuman.

If he’d not been on the look-out for Aziraphale, Crawly would have walked right past him. He had never seen the angel looking like a human woman before. The old ivory-coloured robe was gone, replaced with dress of homespun linen, dyed with indigo, and he wore a matching veil over his conspicuous white curls. It marked him out as a foreigner immediately.

He was pressed against a wall near the palace, speaking in low tones to two other women. One carried a statue of Bes; the other a birthing stool, painted in bright colours. From their belts hung knives and ivory wands, shaped like crescent moons.

Crawly felt something entirely unexpected. He hadn’t seen the angel in three hundred years, and time had softened the brightness and the pain of their last meeting. But seeing Aziraphale in the flesh made him remember touching him, and it made him remember his own desperation and... the softness of it. Before he'd done what he'd thought he had to.

Aziraphale must have sensed something from him; he looked up, right at Crawly.

He grinned widely to hide the ache in the back of his throat. Aziraphale was polite, socially awkward, biddable; he would take Crawly’s lead, if Crawly seemed sure and confident enough. “Hey!”

Aziraphale ignored him. He’d turned to the two women, holding up an arm to shield them. “Hide your faces - go, go now, hurry.”

Crawly rolled his eyes, pointedly looking up and away as the women scampered off. It didn’t hurt to show a _little_ bit of willing. “I’m not interested in your stupid midwives. Though I did see Bes. I’d have thought you’d want to stamp down on that kind of idolatry.”

“It comforts the Egyptian mothers, and at that point they have rather more pressing matters in their hearts than theological concerns. Excuse me.”

Crawly stepped to the side to prevent Aziraphale’s premature departure. “Given the number of them that die in childbirth, I’d have thought the theological concerns would rank pretty high.”

Aziraphale gave him a look of contempt. “Well, you can report my failures the next time you decide to go bearing tales about me.”

“Ah, can’t be arsed,” Crawly said, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s hotter than a Seraph’s arsehole. I know a tavern with a stone cellar though, if you want a drink.”

The disgust slid off Aziraphale’s face. “Are you… Crawly, is that a joke?”

“No – well, the bit about the Seraph’s arsehole, obviously – never got close enough to one to check but I imagine they don’t have them-“

“No, no.” Aziraphale really was confused, for he waved the joke away as though it was nothing; not even the barest flash of gratifying angelic offence. “About going for a drink.”

Crawly gave his half-shrug again. “No. It’s hot. Haven’t seen you around for a while.”

“And why do you think that is?” Aziraphale’s hands weren’t clenched in fists. They hung loose at his sides. “Why would I go for a drink with you? We’re not drinking buddies. We’re not friends.”

“Oh, come on. I get it, you’re still upset about last time. Never let it be said Heaven doesn’t go in for grudges, eh? I’ll buy the first round.”

“No.” Aziraphale was blinking in honest confusion. “No, Crawly.”

“Okay, yeah, so, the end of the evening wasn’t great. I’ll admit that. Hands up.”

Aziraphale exhaled through his nose. “I have things to do. I suggest you leave Egypt.”

“Nope. Come on, Aziraphale, don’t be a prick.”

“Don’t be a- Crawly, do you… Do you really not understand? We’re not friends. We’re not mates. I don’t even _like_ you.”

“You _do_.” Crawly flashed him a grin.

“No. No, Crawly, I don’t. I hate you. I am…” Aziraphale shook his head. “Do you honestly believe that after what you did the last time we met… That I could even bear to look at you?”

Crawly felt sick. He could smell the clouds. He could smell the sulphur, and it made him shake. “After I saved you from a _sau_ and threw a hand-job into the bargain?”

Red blotches were appearing on Aziraphale’s face. “After you tried to extort me! After you threatened me with- You can’t walk up to me and pretend that it never happened. That it was a joke or a game you can shrug off. I _hate you_ , Crawly. I loathe you. I _despise_ you. You disgust me. I think you’re a cruel, pathetic piece of filth, and if I never see you again it will be too soon.”

Fury slammed into Crawly, and the trembling stopped. “Careful, angel. I haven’t told anyone yet, but I can.”

“I know you can. I thought you had already – you’ve been sitting on it for a while.” Aziraphale shrugged. “It’s embarrassing, of course, but the opinions of demons don’t really have much impact on an angel.”

Crawly was no longer grinning, but he was showing his teeth. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Really? And what about the opinions of angels? What if Heaven finds out?”

Aziraphale blinked at him. He looked bored. “Heaven _knows_ , Crawly. I went straight up and told them.”

Crawly’s mouth was dry. “What?”

“They were unimpressed, obviously. But they said they knew I’d been on Earth for a long time. They suggested overwork was to blame.” Despite being shorter than him, Aziraphale managed to give the impression of looking down his curling nose at Crawly. “ _Let this be a lesson to you, Aziraphale,’_ they said. ‘ _You can’t trust a demon. They rejected God, which means they rejected Goodness, Kindness, Trust, Love’_.”

Hurt, wild and red, was flaming in his chest. It sent itching across his skin, and ice down his back. “I didn’t reject God. She rejected me!”

“You raised arms against Her.” Aziraphale’s voice was insultingly steady. “Didn’t you? Or was that a misunderstanding?”

Crawly snarled at him.

“Go on. Deny it.”

Crawly floundered. He desperately searched his head for a retort and threw back the wittiest he could find. “Oh, just fuck off, Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale _smiled_ at him. “Stay out of Egypt. Stay _out of my way,_ Crawly. Unless you’ve managed to work out how to kill me yet?”

“I know exactly how to kill you,” Crawly lied.

“Well. I look forward to seeing your next attempt,” Aziraphale said, and, all thought gone, Crawly leapt on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two midwives are Shiphrah and Puah, from Exodus 1:15–21. The monotheistic Pharaoh is Akhenaten, and that's as far as I'm willing to go on the chronology. XD


	15. Chapter 15

Crawly regretted it before his fist even made contact with Aziraphale’s face, but only for one millisecond. Then adrenaline flooded through him, and he didn’t care if Aziraphale burnt his corporation to a crisp in holy fire. As soon as the first punch landed, he was invincible. He saw Aziraphale’s jaw move with his fist, as though he’d slowed down time, and the satisfaction he felt was almost erotic.

They both crashed through the trestle table they’d been standing beside. Crawly got another punch in, having surprise on his side as well as the advantageous position on top. He could hear nothing other than blood roaring in his ears, and he felt so _strong_ , so _powerful._ He should have done this years ago. Centuries ago!

It felt so good, to make an angel hurt like he'd been hurt. Exultation had replaced anger – no, his anger had ascended, evolved, into furious glee.

Another punch to the face, which Aziraphale caught; Crawly was in an almost meditative state of pure confidence, and didn’t even try to pull his right hand away. He punched Aziraphale in the throat instead with his left hand, and when his right was free he aimed his next punch low, at the soft handspan of flesh beneath the sternum; it would have been easier to see if Aziraphale had been wearing a shendyt like him, instead of big tits and a blue dress, but the choking gasp told him that he’d found the spot he’d been looking for.

His only thought was how to make Aziraphale _hurt_ , where the next blow could inflict the most pain and damage.

The thought was then driven solidly up out of the top of his head, along with his testicles, spine, and every damn organ in his body. He felt as though he’d been stabbed through his perineum with a red-hot sword made of pure nausea. He suddenly had no idea where he was or what he was doing; his body was shaking, desperate to fight on, but his mind was saying, whoa, it was out, bye.

Aziraphale shoved him backwards, barely conscious, and stood over him. Crawly could hear shouts, and dazedly thought that there were people around – he sucked _energy_ and _health_ and _lack-of-pain_ from them and shoved the tangled mess of magic down his crotch like a metaphysical ice pack.

This gave him enough presence of mind to realise that he might have lost his advantage, just a little. Just possibly. Then Aziraphale’s foot came down on his face, like a meteor from heaven.

Crawly gurgled. Once, in his snakey years after Zahabiel had first discorporated him, he’d had a fight with a secretary bird that he’d very nearly lost. In this neck of the woods, actually. Aziraphale, the bastard, wasn’t even kicking him _properly_ , upwards kicks into the gut and face; no, the fucker was stamping on him, like he was a snake to be crushed underfoot.

Aziraphale stood above him. He’d grabbed one of the trestle planks, and he held it up as though it weighed nothing. The sunlight caught in his white hair and gave him a halo of flames. Crawly nearly laughed.

“Go on, then,” Crawly spat. “You’ll enjoy it once you manage it the first time. All fucking angels do.”

Aziraphale just stared down at him. Emotions were writhing on his face: anger, horror, pity. Then he sighed, an exhalation so deep that Crawly felt it in his own lungs.

The angel lowered the makeshift club. He parted his lips to speak, and then a whip cracked through the air. It opened up the right side of Aziraphale’s face, like a sharp knife slicing through flesh at the butcher’s; for half a second Crawly saw the lines of skin before the blood started pouring.

Rage returned, with a surge of energy and a cringe that ran right down to the scaled soles of his feet.

He was hit by the sudden, chillingly embarrassing realisation that the humans around them didn’t see scrappy underdog Crawly bravely taking on an ex-Cherub and Warrior of Heaven; they saw a rich bloke with a ruby gorgerine getting his arse handed to him by a Hebrew slavewoman.

Indeed, looking around, he saw as many expressions of entertained amusement as of outrage. He blushed almost the same colour as his hair, and then looked back at Aziraphale. Two men were bending him over one of the trestles of the stall they’d broken, and the third, a slave overseer with the whip dangling from his wrist, was drawing a khopesh from his belt.

“Whoa, whoa, hey!” Crawly said. “What are you doing?!”

“This slave was fighting you,” said the overseer, as though it was obvious.

The other two men were holding Aziraphale’s arms pinned behind his back. He was on his knees, throat pushed down on the trestle. A makeshift block for the curved sword…

Crawly could let them do it. If Aziraphale was having to secretly do his work instead of marching in to Pharaoh and demanding the slaves all be released… then Heaven had a plan, and didn’t want to show its hand yet. If the humans cut off Aziraphale’s head, he wouldn’t be allowed to go groping around for it. He’d have to let his body die, and get sucked right up. And Crawly would have free rein on Earth.

Aziraphale was looking around for some distraction he could miracle, some way he could escape with plausible deniability. Blood dripped from the whiplash that bisected his swollen cheek.

Once Crawly would have saved him without hesitation. He remembered Aziraphale clinging to him, body shaking; his breath warm in Crawly’s ear; the worshipful, wonderful tone of gratitude and surprise in his voice. The way his eyes shone like stars. It had made Crawly feel, for an instant, like the most powerful being in the universe. It was strangely akin to the glee he’d felt punching Aziraphale in the face. Not the glee, wait. No. The feeling under it. Strength.

The overseer raised his bronze khopesh, and it flashed in the sunlight.

All Crawly had to do was wait. He could even take credit for it.

But _he’d_ know.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath, and stepped forward. “It’s fine. Leave her alone.”

“Not up to you, mate,” said the overseer. “Rules are rules. She’s property of the Pharaoh, not you.” He tried to bring his sword down, but his arms didn’t move.

“I ssssaid,” Crawl hissed. “Leave her the fuck alone. All of you.”

The overseer looked at him in fright. Crawly grinned at him, and with a wiggle of his fingers, the tip of the sword throbbed, expanded, flattened. It tasted the air with a forked tongue, and blinked its eyes into existence. The length of the blade, already sinuous, began to writhe.

The slave overseer threw down his sword with a gratifying scream and his assistants stepped back. Aziraphale straightened up and stretched out his arms.

“Leave uss, mortalss, to our bussinessss,” Crawly said. He normally tried to rein his eyes and tongue in, but he relaxed into a more terrifying shape. “All of you!”

The slave-drivers ran. The gawkers who were too stupid to obey received signals from their bladders that their kidneys would explode in a matter of seconds, and in the ensuing stampede Crawly gripped Aziraphale’s wrist and yanked him down a side-street.

“Get off. Get off, Crawly!” Aziraphale pulled his arm free, wincing, and looked back to make sure they hadn’t been followed.

“Oh, right, yeah, you’re fucking welcome.”

“I’m not going to thank you. You started it.” Aziraphale stepped away from him. Out of range, Crawly supposed.

It wasn’t true, either. Whatever _this_ was, Aziraphale had started it when he offered Crawly shelter in that sandstorm. “You could have finished it.”

“So could you.”

Crawly shrugged. “Heaven might replace you with someone less gullible.”

The faintest hint of softness left Aziraphale’s face, and he stood up straight with a grimace of pain. “Quite. If they sent Zahabiel back down you really would be in trouble.”

“I was winning, according to the last time I saw Hell’s scoreboard.” Aziraphale was turning to leave, and Crawly quickly stepped forward. “Not going to heal that? You look like you’ve been in a fight or something.”

That finally got him what he wanted: a reluctant ripple of amusement across Aziraphale’s damaged face. Aziraphale hissed at the pain, but stopped walking away. “It’s not fatal. It’ll heal on its own eventually.”

“It’ll heal immediately if you want.”

“It would be selfish, and frivolous.” His eyes were dark in the gloom of the street, like a troubled sea. “And I’m being watched.”

“What if it scars?”

“What if it does?”

“Scarred angels. Bad propaganda, isn’t it? Aren’t you all meant to look _perfect_?”

Aziraphale’s hand very nearly drifted to his opened cheek. His other was beginning to swell from the punches. “Scars honourably gained aren’t imperfections.” Crawly scoffed. “Besides, looking a little dangerous might make my life easier.”

“Must hurt like buggery.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Aziraphale snapped. “We never made it that far, did we?”

Crawly spluttered. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows to note the successful landing of the hit, and turned away.

He stood still.

He turned back.

“Crawly, I’m… I’ll just say this. Get out of Egypt.”

“Oh, for Satan’s sake. Just sod off, would you?”

“It’s not a threat. It’s a warning. I’ve been told that within a hundred years, probably less… Things will happen. Get out of Egypt.” And he walked away.

*

“Great stuff, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel. He made a show of reading through the report again. “Brilliant! It’s a shame he slithered off, but that’s what snakes do, eh? Sandalphon liked it as well.”

Sandalphon showed his golden teeth. “I did. Very… vivid. Wouldn’t have thought you were such a martial spirit, looking at you.”

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale said, staring fixedly at the floor. “I just tried to write it down as I remembered it happening. Um. Was. Was it right, not to heal…?”

“Oh, that!” Gabriel said, and waved his hand. Aziraphale felt the scabbed welt of his cheek soften and melt away. “Really, very diligent. Very commendable. But absolutely no need for that degree of scrupulosity!”

“Wherever did you get the idea?” Raphael bit out. He was looking at Gabriel.

“But untidy, Aziraphale.” Michael had a sheath of papers in front of them. “Slightly masochistic, even. Angels walking around with gaping wounds – not a good image, is it? We’re meant to inspire feelings of confidence and peace. Most of the time.”

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back, to hide how they shook. “I’m sorry, I won’t- I mean-“

“And no need to apologise all the time!” Gabriel shouted with a smile, making Aziraphale flinch. “You’re doing fine, champ. Don’t _worry_ so much! Worry’s the opposite of faith, isn’t it? You’re meant to have faith.”

“I’m s-“ Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t know why he’d been summoned upstairs to discuss his report. He didn’t know what was coming.

Unless Crawly had told Hell.

And Hell had told Heaven.

He was going to be sick. He was going to be sick all over the marble floor, and if Michael thought a few bruises and a slash on the cheek were untidy-

“Anyway, report aside, the reason we’ve called you up here,” Gabriel said. “Big stuff afoot in Egypt. Upstairs thinks it’s time to put an end to the whole slavery business.”

“Really?” Aziraphale dared to raise his eyes. “Oh, oh, that’s so wonderful – I’ve been praying-“

“We know,” said Uriel. She had her own sheath of papers.

“Going to be lots of signs. You don’t need to worry about the big-ticket stuff, they’re all beyond your abilities, but you’re going to stick with the prophet and facilitate the personal miracles. Okay, buddy?”

And so, a few decades later, when Moses and Aaron approached the Pharaoh’s throne, Aziraphale walked alongside them, invisible.

Someone else in the room was trying to be invisible too. The stupid, stubborn _snake_ hadn’t got out of Egypt. “I really don’t know why I bother sometimes!” Aziraphale had whispered.

God’s demand had been put to the Pharaoh. Crawly had whispered in the Pharaoh’s ear. The Pharaoh had replied that if the Israelites were so underworked that they had time to plan sacrifices and festivals for their strange, unknown god, well, they would no longer be supplied with straw for brick-making. They would now be required to make the same number of bricks, but would have to source their own straw.

Crawly had waved as they retreated.

Now he, Moses, and Aaron were back for Round Two.

“Are you deaf as well as mute?” said the Pharaoh, leaning forward. “I said, no. No!”

“Say, _Our G- God has the p-p-power to p-perform w-wuh-wonders_ ,” Moses whispered to Aaron.

“So do ours,” Pharaoh said darkly. “Go on. Let’s see one of these wonders.”

“Th-throw down the staff, Aaron. J-ju-just like we p-practiced.”

Aziraphale cricked his neck. Aaron threw down his staff on the polished floor before the throne, and the knobbly bit at the top throbbed, expanded, flattened. It tasted the air with a forked tongue, and blinked its eyes into existence. 

Beside the throne, Crawly’s jaw dropped. Eyes glowing like lamps in the gloom, he bent over and began whispering furiously to the Pharaoh.

The Pharaoh laughed. “Very nice! Very impressive. For a bunch of brick-makers. You – fetch Ptahhotep, Nebwawy, and Sennefer.”

A slave ran off to fetch the court magicians. Crawly made a tube with his hand and jerked it back and forth over his groin.

“Wh-what is he d-doing?” Moses murmured.

“I suspect he’s just being obscene,” Aziraphale replied airily. “Ignore him. Demons are very rude creatures.”

Crawly performed an exaggeration explosion with a look of bliss, then pointed furiously at the angel. Moses and Aaron looked at him.

“Do _you_ know what he’s trying to say?” Aziraphale asked them. “The area he keeps gesturing to suggests it’s something… _sexual_?”

Crawly pointed at him again, and mouthed, _YOU PRICK_.

Moses and Aaron tripped over themselves to speak. Aaron got in first. “As you said, sir, just ignore him. Such things, angels shouldn’t think about.”

Crawly was now jerking his hand to his mouth, popping his tongue into his cheek.

“Now I _really_ don’t know what that’s supposed to mean,” Aziraphale said innocently.

All the while, Aaron’s snake swayed back and forth with a blank look.

The magicians trooped in, complete with slaves carrying staffs behind them. Crawly laced his fingers and stretched them out, glaring at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was nervous about the battle of wills that was no doubt about to take place. Obviously he had the full might of Heaven and the Almighty God behind him, but Crawly… Well, he knew not to underestimate Crawly. Crawly was cunning, and surprising, and had this habit of doing magic so nonchalantly – as though it came from himself, rather than from Hell.

And, when it came down to it, Aziraphale wasn’t actually _one hundred percent_ sure that the Almighty would channel Her power through him. Or perhaps, even worse, She would, and it would drain out through a crack in him, or find some knot of resentment and disobedience and be dammed by it, and… But that was blasphemy in itself, wasn’t it? To think that any flaw of Aziraphale’s couldn’t be overcome by God. He was just worried that there wouldn’t be an Aziraphale left after She’d finished using him.

Maybe that would be best. Best for everyone. Certainly best for him. It was a regrettable weakness, this unwillingness. This fear.

_You can do this_ , he thought towards Aaron’s staff. _You’re a brilliant snake. You’re a brave, clever, lovely snake, yes, you are. Don’t worry._

“Nebwawy,” said the Pharaoh. “Show them the power of _our_ gods.”

Crawly flicked his fingers. The staff barely touched the ground before it reared up, fangs glinting. The Pharaoh didn’t look surprised, unlike Nebwawy.

“Go on,” Aziraphale said gently to Aaron’s staff.

Crawly had a truly incredible imagination, especially for a creature who wasn’t supposed to have one. Aziraphale could admit that without resentment or rancour. He could perform feats of magic that would baffle an Archangel, simply because they’d never had realised their powers could be used in such a way.

He was, however, a creature of instinct and intuition. He trusted himself.

Aziraphale did not. Aziraphale knew that he was an unreliable, untrustworthy thing. He was fundamentally flawed, and could place no weight on any part of his power.

So instead he learnt. He sought to understand. He walked out into the desert, and every time he found a snake with new markings he bothered the poor thing until it bit him. Then he went to the jungles past the Indus, to the vast island continent in the southern sea. He’d flown west into wet forests and pulled back his wings to dive into shallow seas to bully the snakes there too.

He noted from each bite whether it caused pain or paralysis, or both – what effects it had on the blood, on the organs. How far he could let it through his body before he was forced to heal himself. He had shrunk himself down into his body, to watch the venom make tiny bricks made in the liver change their form just slightly.

The Pharaoh had called them brick-makers.

The pain was easy. The most nerve-wracking element had been setting out his proposal for Gabriel to give him a miracle grant.

He remembered from the first time Crawly had tried to kill him that his venom was a coagulant. Crawly was a creature of instinct, and Aziraphale was willing to bet that he’d try that first. So Aziraphale made every little muscle-brick in the snake’s new body impervious to the clotting venom.

It was more difficult making Aaron’s staff eat Nebwawy’s afterwards.

Aziraphale’s corporation was sweating. Ptahhotep’s staff went straight for Aaron’s again; Aziraphale made it take the bites, then fasten itself onto the throat of its opponent. His mind raced through every blood-venom he could remember – ones that destroyed red bricks, ones that destroyed white – and made Aaron’s immune to them as well. The snake was swelling with the amount of magic in it, but the virus of its venom was spreading through the throat, down into the little lungs, down…

“You all r-right?” Moses whispered to him.

Aziraphale didn’t reply. Ptahhotep’s snake expired, and Aziraphale made Aaron’s poor creature eat the corpse again. He sent wave upon wave of healing power through it. _God, heal my strength. God, please, heal my strength_.

There were too many venoms. He saw Crawly frowning in concentration as he turned the magician Sennefer’s staff into a snake. It bulged, egregious, monstrously huge.

Crawly smirked. The message was clear. _Swallow this_.

Aziraphale didn’t bother trying to make Aaron’s staff immune to any venom; instead, he poured every drop of power he had into the creature’s venom and fangs. He’d have one chance.

The venom which had come closest to discorporating him hadn’t attacked his blood or his heart or the flesh around the bite. Instead it had travelled through the nerves of his body as quickly as lighting, and the paralysis had been swift to follow it.

Sennefer’s snake barely seemed to notice the bite of Aaron’s staff; Aziraphale called it back to safety, ignored venom and immunity both and just made it _fast_ , faster than the vast monster Crawly had chosen. Even faster, when the nerve-toxin began to work.

They all watched in silence as it died. Aaron’s snake turned around to look up at Aziraphale; Aziraphale spread his hands to apologise. At least he made it bigger so that eating the final opponent was a little easier on its stomach.

They watched in silence. The eating took a long time. When it was done, Aaron gingerly bent down to pick up his snake by the tail. The miracle stuttered up its length, turning it back into an ordinary wooden staff.

Aziraphale felt dead on his feet. The Pharaoh’s new refusals barely registered. All he could see was the lambent fire of Crawly’s eyes in the darkness behind the throne.

He’d not just beaten him, he knew. He’d _humiliated_ him. The staff-snake idea had been sent down from On High, from the Archangels themselves or higher, but Aziraphale thought it was more than likely the idea had come from his report.

Crawly was going to take this personally.

Well. Aziraphale _had_ warned him to get out of Egypt.


	16. Chapter 16

It was to begin at midnight.

The new city of Pi-Ramesses, pulled up out of old Avaris, blinding white with its new whitewash and fresh-cut marble, adorned with palms and flowers and canals, was no more. The only thing that remained of the city were the layers of slaves’ bones that formed its foundations.

Aziraphale had never seen Hell, but he imagined it must look much like the city did now. It was a place stinking of blood, of rotting fish, of faeces and pus and death. When you walked down a street, any street, your footsteps crunched: the bodies of frogs reduced to tiny bones and slime; flies; locusts. And you walked among the bodies, piled up on either side. The dogs had licked the weeping sores the lice had left, and then had taken to just eating the flesh altogether. When it had just been the cattle and donkeys and camels dying the Egyptians had tried to contain the miasma; now that it was the Egyptians dying, there was no one left to bury them.

With the dust and smoke and ash one could barely see three cubits ahead. He had not stopped shaking in five days, and his body was broken with it. He felt as though he was wearing one of the corpses.

He’d thought that perhaps he might be able to persuade a few of the Israelite families to take in a street child. None of them had been enslavers, they were just children… But it would be difficult enough for the Israelites to feed their own families, and he worried that putting an Egyptian child underneath an Israelite lintel without orders or confirmation from Heaven would doom the Israelite family as well. 

So instead he walked the streets handing out pieces of honeycomb laced with deep sleep. Enough that if some poor child _wasn’t_ the first-born orphan or by-blow of a soldier or rapist or adulterer, in the morning they’d wake up. If they were… well. They’d just never wake up at all. They would have beautiful dreams, and the last taste on their tongue would be of the sweetest, richest honey, and the next thing they’d know would be Heaven, and…

The problem was, he couldn’t even give the honeycomb away. The children had seen too much catastrophe to trust in any kind of kindness. So he tore his tunic and began to laugh and cry like a lunatic – one more lunatic on the streets was nothing out of the ordinary these days - letting the honeycomb drop out of the alabaster jar which swung from his hip, tied by its neck to his belt.

It was a role surprisingly easy to fall into. Surprisingly difficult to pull himself out again.

A bright light behind him illuminated the curls of smoke ahead. It was golden-white, and sketched out the piled bodies for an eerily beautiful second, before the twisted grimaces of pain and the blank eyes stared back at him. Aziraphale cocked his head to the side, and thought for a moment that he’d missed his step, and perhaps he really had Fallen into Hell without realising it.

He crushed his hands to his mouth, and tried to swallow his giggles.

“Aziraphale?”

Ah, of course. Aziraphale turned around. Gabriel, Sandalphon, Michael and Uriel, arrayed in the full shining panoply of Heaven. Why? Who was going to return a blow?

And behind them, two other angels. Azrael, Lord of Death. The other, Naqamiel, the Punisher of God. He hadn’t seen her since his demotion, when she had cut off his heads, and then his wings. She smiled at him.

“What are you doing here, Aziraphale? You’re all… sticky.” Gabriel was staring at the alabaster jar; Aziraphale knew better than to attempt to hide it from view.

“I’m drugging the street orphans,” he said instead, and another laugh rose and caught in his throat. “I didn’t… I didn’t know whether it was going to be painful. The killing. They don’t deserve _pain_ , do they? I thought it wasn’t interference, if I didn’t try to save them. Just to save them the pain and the fear…”

“You _thought_ -“ Gabriel began, but Michael silenced him by knocking the tip of their sword against his breastplate.

“That’s fine, Aziraphale,” they said. “But unnecessary. It’ll be painless. In between breaths. They won’t even know it’s coming.”

“Good,” Aziraphale whispered. “That’s good.”

“So, clean yourself up. You’re meant to be scouting ahead to make sure the path to the sea’s clear.”

“I know that we want to avoid the Philistines, but… wh-what happens when they _reach_ the sea?”

Gabriel again sparked with the lightning of fury; Michael again silenced him with a tap of their sword. “God will provide. Their safety is the most important thing to Her. You just get them to the sea. We reckon the Egyptians’ll ask them to go at first light, so you’ve got time.”

“Then…” He decided to risk it. “May I stay here, to comfort people? As soon as you go, I’ll fly to Sukkoth, I promise.”

“If you’re sure you can get there in time. Just don’t get in our way,” Michael warned; Aziraphale gave a half-bow and ran, before Gabriel could countermand the order or Michael could change their mind.

It was pointless to stay. What could he do? He was risking Gabriel’s wrath for nothing, but he couldn’t leave before the killing began. If all he could do was witness the tragedy, then he would do it.

Just a few hours before, he had been eating roast lamb and unleavened bread, reassuring Moses and Miriam and their families that everything would be fine. They would all look back on this day and praise God. They needed to be brave and steadfast for a few hours.

The wailing began only a few minutes after midnight. Aziraphale felt the power of God break over him like a wave of life, something devastating and beautiful and beyond every other feeling he had experienced. He had missed Her so much, and to feel Her touch here, in this place...

In a stinking street, Aziraphale turned the face of a little girl into his shoulder so that she wouldn’t see her sister die and wished, for a moment, that he was back in the Cube.

*

For nearly an hour, Pi-Ramesses was thick with the light and holiness of death-dealing angels. Then they went south, up the Nile, and Crawly uncurled himself from the hearth-stone of an empty house, scratched with sigils of protection and invisibility, that he’d been hiding under.

It was easy to find Aziraphale. The scent of _cleanliness_ was painfully bright and obvious amidst the stench and the rot. Crawly became a shadow on the wall and stalked him out to the edge of the city. “Oi!”

Aziraphale turned around. He looked terrible, and it made Crawly furious. How dare Aziraphale look so wretched, when his side had done _this_?

“By God, Crawly, not now. Please.”

“Bugger that.” Crawly spread his hands. “So. The mercy of Heaven?”

“I told you to leave Egypt.”

“So I wouldn’t _see_? What you’ve been up to? What were you doing – getting a bit of sword practice in? Gloating? Or just living it up with your little Israelite friends?”

“Living it up. With the enslaved and the kin of the murdered. Right.” Aziraphale began walking away again. “Leave me alone.”

“So, you’re a coward as well. How many kids died tonight?”

“I don’t know, Crawly!” Aziraphale snapped and turned on his heel, marching right back. He finally, _finally_ looked angry. It was better than the blank death behind his eyes. “How many were murdered as they took their first breath? How many were flogged? How many died in the brick yards _you_ and your projects put them in?”

Crawly gaped in performative shock. He shouldn’t be surprised than an angel would try to foist the blame elsewhere. “Oh, so this is _my_ fault?”

“You don’t think of the consequences! You don’t know when to _stop_!”

“The… Aziraphale, the fucking hypocrisy of saying _I_ don’t know when to stop, when your side-“ The anger was like lava in him. He was going to blow. “You could have stopped after the blood. The frogs, the lice, even the locusts, but no!”

“Me?” Aziraphale looked _so fucking innocent_. So _distraught._ “If I could have stopped this-“

“Your side!”

Aziraphale scoffed. “My side. Right. _My side_. My _friends_. I don’t mean your side, Crawly, I mean _you_! You persuaded the last Pharaoh to enslave the Israelites! You stoked this one’s pride, just like Nimrod! Or had you forgotten Babel? Why are you _suddenly_ so angry? Why is this so much worse than the enslavement of a people? Than the systematic murder of their babies? Why is this so much worse, Crawly? Because you can smell it now? Because _you_ can hear the wails and because _you_ can smell the bodies, _now_ it’s a tragedy?”

“You piece of shit.” Crawly’s voice was a growl in his throat. “Self-righteousness? Here?”

“No. No. Just…” Aziraphale gestured helplessly, and Crawly finally noticed what was hanging from his belt.

“Wait. Is that- Is that the one I took from the _sau_?”

Aziraphale’s fingers flew to the alabaster jar. “I…” The angel squeezed his eyes shut, and sighed. “Yes. It’s a reminder.”

Crawly felt something cold unfurl in his gut. “Right. I see. I also see you’ve been using it to keep honey in, though.”

“Laced with sleep. I was trying to help the children.”

Crawly looked around at the corpses and laughed. “Absolutely fucking phenomenal job, Aziraphale! Well done!”

Aziraphale’s chin wasn’t wobbling. It should have been. Aziraphale’s _voice_ was the one that came when he was upset and close to tears, but his face was dry, and his face was hard. “It was all I _could_ do!”

Crawly shook his head, and when he didn’t feel that adequately illustrated his disgust, he sneered as well. “Pathetic.”

“What would you have done, in my position? Please, tell me!” Something else glimmered on Aziraphale’s face. “ _Tell me_ how I could have put a stop to this, and I would have done it. I would do it! If you have an idea, then please, Crawly for the love of- for the love of anything. Tell me.”

Crawly had stopped breathing. The anger had slid off Aziraphale’s face, leaving something quiet and not sane. “If you know of some way we could even… we could have had a _chance_ of stopping this… If there was way, and you’d _told me_ , I’d have…”

Crawly lifted his chin, and took a step back. “You could have refused to be complicit in it! You could have said _no,_ _not another mass murder_!”

“And then what?” Aziraphale shook his head. “You don’t understand. It wouldn’t change anything, and they… I’m already… The punishment would be-“ The angel stared right through Crawly. “You don’t understand. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Falling?” Crawly licked his lips. His throat was dry. “Too good to Fall, are you?”

Aziraphale shook his head again. “I don’t know. But I love Her. Not too good, but…. I’d die, without Her. If She wants this… How could I speak against _Her_?”

Crawly wasn’t surprised that his own voice cracked. “Some of us did.”

“And what then? What then? I go to Hell? That’s the morally preferable choice, is it? For God’s sake-!” Aziraphale hid his face in his hands. “All of it – every choice – it’s all just- I don’t know _how to reconcile it_ -“

“Fewer mass murders with us, angel,” Crawly said. Without thinking, without meaning to, he reached out his hand. It was so strange, to see Aziraphale in blue instead of white. If Aziraphale _did_ Fall… Perhaps they’d grant Crawly an apprentice. Perhaps he could herd the other demons off. Perhaps he could prevent what had happened to the Watchers… “Less hypocrisy.”

Aziraphale looked back at him. In the angel’s grief Crawly could see his angelic face shining through, young and beautiful and heartbroken, shining through a face lined, and human. And just as heartbroken.

“More torture.” But Aziraphale reached up, and touched Crawly’s sleeve. “Slavery. And for the ones you get, after death, it’s eternal. At least… at least all the children tonight will go to Heaven.”

“What good will that do them? Hm?” Crawly raised his eyebrows, and turned his hand over to brush his fingers against Aziraphale’s wrist. “Even you don’t want to go back to Heaven.”

Bright spots of blood were appearing in Aziraphale’s cheeks. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“They’re innocent. I’m not.”

“Yeah.” Crawly exhaled, and dropped his hand. He felt weary beyond measure. “Yeah. You've got that right.”


	17. Chapter 17

The cautious joy with which the procession had set up camp in Pi-HaHiroth had dissipated; as they swiftly packed up the tents again there was a rising terror in the air.

An orphan girl wearing a golden hairnet, much too big, sucked on one fist and held Aziraphale’s left hand. There was barely a single person, children included, who was not wearing at least one article of gold, given as placatory gifts by the surviving Egyptians. A slightly older girl carrying her baby brother, hurriedly swaddled in proffered green linen, held his right. Her new golden anklets tinkled as they walked.

On the edge of the camp stood Aaron, Miriam, and Moses, in angry conversation with the elders of the people.

“Leah, sweetheart,” Aziraphale said to the oldest girl, “could you look after Dinah tonight as well?”

Leah nodded bravely, and let go of his hand. “Now?”

“Yes, go and help with the tents. Good girl.”

She nodded again. “All right. Come on, Dinah, you can walk with me and Ben.”

Aziraphale watched them go to find Leah and Ben’s relatives, then caught up with the prophets.

“We said it to you!” one of the elders said. “We _said_ it. We said, just let us stay in Egypt, leave us be and let us be their slaves!”

“How _dare_ you?” Aziraphale’s voice was a low growl. He thought of the bodies and the stench in Pi-Ramesses; he thought about Crawly’s contempt. He jabbed his finger at the man, and then pointed away. “God, heal my strength! She lead you out of Egypt Herself, and you’d rather have stayed? Under a human who calls himself a god? She’s _right there_!”

“He, Aziraphale,” Aaron corrected. Astonishing, it really was, Aziraphale thought. You’d think of everyone here that he could be trusted to know… But, then again, they could all see Her right now, and it was no wonder if the grammatically correct way of referring to a pillar of cloud five miles tall eluded them.

It was vast beyond words, swirls of ivory, charcoal, stone and slate, silver and iron, obsidian and ash. Violet and lilac where it was lit from within by the blinding white of lightning, or flashes of copper and pink from red fire. Lingering green or blue lights, ghosting here and there over the cloud’s strange, airy topography.

Aziraphale knew without the least shred of doubt that to enter that cloud would be death. Real, true death: his corporation would be pulled atom from atom, and then the atoms themselves would be pulled apart by the swirling tornado of glorious power, and within those nuclear explosions his true being would be pierced by Glory until he drowned, both instantly and eternally.

He longed to throw himself into the cloud. He wanted to do so much that he vibrated with the effort of holding himself back from it. His hair was wet with sweat.

It left no room for any other thoughts, any other longings or emotions or pains. Even those of his last conversation with Crawly, just days ago.

“And now He’s going to watch as they slaughter us! Maybe that’s what He wanted all along!” the elder was saying. “It would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the desert!”

Aziraphale stepped forward; Moses put a hand on his chest. “P-please. W-we mustn’t be afraid. Nahor, tell everyone: stand firm, and today you will see the deliverance of God. Today. And the Egyptians that we’re seeing n-now we will n-never, ever see again. The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.”

Aziraphale looked away at that, but looked back when Nahor didn’t argue. Moses was staring up at the cloud, with eyes as wide as it, as lit from within as it.

The prophet sighed and shook his head. “He… I know what He wants us to do. Nahor, tell everyone that we have to be ready to move at first light. We’re going to go through the sea.”

“Are you as stupid as your mouth is?” Nahor began.

Aaron shouted him down. “If Moses says we’re going through the sea, we’re going through the sea!”

“The Egyptians will try to chase us down, and God will drown them. They won’t be able to follow us. Everyone just n-needs to be ready to m-move as soon as I say.” Moses looked at Aziraphale. “My friend, we need time.”

Aziraphale nodded. He pulled down his wrap of linen and tied it around his waist instead, to bare his back. The alabaster jar knocked against his hip, and he saw Miriam frown at something on his back, then look straight at him with concern. “I’ll see what I can do. I can buy you some at least.”

Moses smiled, and touched his arm. “Thank you. As m-much as you can give us.”

Aziraphale unfurled his wings, and though he didn’t dignify it with a look, he rather smugly noticed Nahor’s gasp of surprise. _Not just the weird albino at the front now, am I?_

He landed beyond the campsite, between the Israelites and the Egyptians. If they _did_ ride their chariots straight at him Aziraphale didn’t quite know what he was going to do; he’d crash as many as he could, and hope to cause a knock-on effect, perhaps. He could vanish the wheel pins, send gadflies after the poor horses…

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He turned around, to glance back at the camp, but he could see nothing except the pillar of cloud. It had moved silently behind him, come upon him in quietude, and now it was about to overwhelm him.

He couldn’t run. He couldn’t _move_. He relaxed entirely instead, accepting that this was his death, and sighed out a prayer of gratitude.

And as the vast cloud of power and glory swept through him, and over him, and around him, he could have sworn that the only thing he felt, for the briefest moment, was the sensation of kind fingers stroking his hair.

*

They stood there all night, Aziraphale and the pillar of cloud. Aziraphale didn’t dare speak. Even if he did dare, he couldn’t have; his voice had been stolen away. He was a silent sentry. The cloud cast darkness over the Egyptians and shed light on the Israelites, so that when the dawn broke the camp had been broken up, and the Israelites were on their way to the sea.

“Lord?” Aziraphale said softly. He had not spoken for hours, and his voice cracked. “Lord, I… There are so many things I need to ask you. I need to say I’m sor-“

Before he could finish the cloud was gone.

No, the cloud was still there, it was he who had vanished; without even feeling the wind on his cheeks, Aziraphale had been removed from between the two camps, and deposited on top of a small peak beside the sea. The pillar of cloud began to move back over the Israelites, and Aziraphale saw the new sunlight glitter on the chariots and spears and helmets of the Pharaoh’s army.

“Wait-!” he called out to the pillar, but a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. No, not his shoulder: on the scar tissue in between his neck and his shoulder, where his lion’s head had once been.

The hand squeezed the scar tissue in a painful grip.

“She wants some one-on-one time with Her humans,” Gabriel said. “No angels in Sinai for the time being.”

Tears were dripping from Aziraphale’s cheeks. He felt the presence of God moving away, across the sea; he wanted to fly to it, to lose himself in it again. But Gabriel kept him rooted.

The Egyptians charged.

“She wants to show them Who they’re dealing with,” Gabriel said in his ear, chatty and cordial.

The last time he saw Gabriel, days ago in Pi-Ramesses, he had spoken back. He had been protected by Michael. Now Michael wasn’t here.

Something was happening in the water. The waves rose higher and higher, forming a blue-green canyon, thrashing and deep.

“You’re going north,” Gabriel continued. “There’s some boat humans causing all sorts of havoc, apparently – see what you can do about that, hmm?”

“You mean… I… You’re not…”

The hand tightened. “I’m not what?”

Aziraphale couldn’t squeeze his eyes shut. He couldn’t tear his gaze from the Israelites surrounded by the sea-water. “You, um, want me to…”

“Go north. Yes. What else would I want to do to you, Aziraphale?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

“Neither do I, champ. No idea what you’re talking about.”

"Can I go down to just... I want to say goodbye, to Moses..."

"Why? Is he a particular friend? We can't have you having any particular friends, Aziraphale, can we? We're meant to feel equal love for everyone. So, no need to say goodbye." Gabriel’s hand slapped his back, and Aziraphale nearly pitched forward down the face of the hill. “Oh, watch this. As soon as the Egyptians are on the sea-bed She’s going to let the water wash over them. This is going to be great.”

*

A few decades later, and a few hundred miles to the north-west, Aziraphale stood on the walls of Wilusa. The blocking of the straits between the Great Green Sea, as the Egyptians called it, and the little sea around Marble Island – and, hence, the cutting off of the Great Green from the Blue Sea to the north-east – was the talk of the entire Hittite Empire. They called the city Wilusa, and knew it to be part of the Assuwa Federation which the Hittites had defeated, but to the western warriors who had besieged it for ten years it was known as Troy.

Quite apart from the political disruption it was causing, Aziraphale had another reason to be there. Rumour had it that one of the Wilusan princesses was mad, but others said that she could see the future, after a curse from a god. Knowing what passed for a god in these parts, Aziraphale had set out for the city.

The princess had spotted him immediately. He stood next to her on the walls of the city while below, her brother led a sortie against the Greek camp. “And so the, um, ‘god’ who gave you this gift…”

“Apollo.” The princess looked older than her years; grief and anguish had carved lines beside her mouth and across her forehead. Unlike the neat, gold-decorated hairstyles of the other princesses, hers hung thick and wild and black down past her knees. Black were her thick brows and black were her thick lashes, and blackest of all were her wide, glittering eyes.

Cassandra grabbed Aziraphale’s invisible hand, and Aziraphale felt it instantly: demonic energy like a burning flame, like scorching desert sunlight; he felt the death throes of a snake; he felt plague; he felt an arrow’s sharpness and a mocking lyre’s melody. “You can feel him, can’t you?” she said, nodding. “Yes. He wanted to have me. He chose me, when I was a baby, in his temple. But I would not have him, you see? So he twisted and poisoned his gift.”

“I can try to release you,” Aziraphale said carefully. “I have power too. I can try.”

“You will not succeed. You cannot lift it. I can see your power at the heart of it, but it is not enough. And soon you will leave here. No. I can see the path laid out for me. I can see the dark door, and the bloody axe…”

“Things can be changed,” Aziraphale said, heart breaking for the girl. “There are always options.”

“Different paths. I can see them. I see the path you will tread too, messenger.” She smiled at him – a bright, mad smile. “I see you go down into the underworld, in hope. I see you looking out from behind bronze eyes…”

“No,” Aziraphale said instantly, chilled to the core, and Cassandra threw back her head and roared with laughter. The other women on the wall barely glanced at her. “You must have misunderstood-“

“Even you! Haha! Even the messenger – see? I told you your power wasn’t enough! Foolish Principality!” Her laughter rose into a shriek. “Down you’ll go, down you’ll go – willingly! Like now, as the wind turns, you’ll go down willingly!”

She pointed at the plain below. A huge eagle dove to near where the Trojan army was advancing, scooped its prey off the ground, and rose again. The women and the warriors all followed it with their eyes, and Aziraphale saw the blood-red flash of a struggling, squirming snake-belly.

“Oh, no.”

Crawly was growing larger to try to slow the eagle down, fangs in its neck; the eagle’s talons had pierced Crawly’s corporation, and fat drops of blood fell from the airborne battle.

For one second, Aziraphale thought, _this is perfect_. He had been _dreading_ seeing Crawly again, after their painful conversation at the first Passover, and if he was discorporated without Aziraphale even having to lift a finger, well, he’d know he was safe from an awkward encounter for another few years at least.

But the thought made guilt writhe in his gut, with about the same amount of violence with which Crawly was writhing around his aquiline aggressor. If Aziraphale didn’t want to go to Hell – and he didn’t, _obviously_ , and he wasn’t going to, so! – it would be… hypocritical, to let Crawly go down now. That insult Crawly had thrown at him. Mask-wearer. Actor.

Pretending to be good. Pretending to be an angel.

The eagle gave up, and dropped the huge snake. Crawly fell.

“I’ll be back,” Aziraphale said without thinking, and jumped from the high walls. His wings tore through his robe and caught the wind just before he hit the ground; he heard Cassandra howling with excitement as he flew forwards. The Trojan warriors were rushing forward to finish off the snake, and Aziraphale threw them back with a burst of power.

He landed next to Crawly and mantled his wings. He was still invisible, he suspected, but holding off the soldiers would leave him too tired to heal the damage. So he gathered the massive snake up in his arms, and ran.

“Crawly, I swear to God, if you bite me, I will smite you so hard Hell will have to pull you down in pieces,” he hissed, struggling with Crawly’s size. But you couldn’t go around changing a fellow’s corporation without permission – healings were different, he assured himself – but making Crawly into a more convenient shape was… not on.

He launched himself into the air, searching for somewhere to hide. The city was out; instead he dove for a copse south of the city, south of the plain, willing Crawly’s corporation to survive a little longer.

He landed, ducked into the trees, and dropped Crawly in an unceremonious heap. Broken spine, broken ribs – he poured energy into them without wasting energy in making the healing painless, and then healed the damage the eagle’s talons had done from the inside out.

Aziraphale leant back against a tree, exhausted by the sudden exertion, as Crawly took a breath, uncurled, and tasted the air.

He saw Aziraphale, went very still, and then began to resume his human form. “Angel…”

“You were losing a fight with an eagle,” Aziraphale said. “If anyone asks, I’ll say I healed you to interrogate you. Which is exactly what I’m doing. Interrogating you.”

Crawly swayed to and fro while his form settled. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s not how an interrogation usually works, but… I heard a princess was in a spot of trouble.”

“You’re a bit late, her dad killed her about ten years ago.” Crawly was looking at him with suspicion, which Aziraphale conceded was understandable. “Iphigenia?”

“No, Cassandra. There was another one?”

“Oh, the mad one. Apollo’s girl.”

“Well, no, very much _not_ ,” Aziraphale said. He pushed himself up the tree trunk. “It seems to be a curse rather than a possession, which should make things easier.”

“Easier?”

“Easier to lift.”

“Oh, angel, no.” Crawly smiled hesitantly. “Let me return the, eh, favour. Apollo’s not to be messed with. You really should leave this place.”

“Well, I can’t! It’s positively _drenched_ in demonic energy; Heaven’ll want me to get to the bottom of it.”

“If I tell you, will you _go_?” Crawly looked over his shoulder. “It’s all just an infernal in-fight. Apparently there was some disastrous office party, words about personal appearance were thrown about – vanity, all well and good, or bad – but it all got rather _all-encompassing_ , so Beelzebub told them all to stick to one patch of Earth and use that as an arena, thrash it out. Like a game, if instead of a race like dal or mehen, there were a game with two armies fighting on a board… Anyway. This peninsula’s the board. You don’t want to be a piece.”

“What about a player?”

Crawly snorted. “Nope. I’m not either – as was just demonstrated by a fucking eagle. Seriously, you know what’s going on now, mission accomplished, _well done Aziraphale old chap_ , now go.”

Aziraphale tried to mend his robe and made a hash job of it. He was _tired_ … “Unfortunately I must. Heaven aside for one moment, I told Cassandra I’d be back.”

“Oh, for Satan’s sake-!” Crawly rolled his eyes. “And fight _Apollo_? He’d eat you for breakfast! He’s a nasty bastard, Aziraphale. Rapes anyone who takes his fancy. He’s like a toddler – sees something and wants it, and bugger anyone who says ‘no’. Usually literally. Once, I was having a nap on a stone in some mountains to the east, across the sea, and he decided that he wanted to sit on the stone. That stone. A whole mountain full of stones, and he wants to sit on _that one_. We had a massive fight over it.”

“Who won?”

“Ehn. Him. But, no buggering, so, you take what you can get.”

Aziraphale blushed, not quite knowing why that idea made him shiver. It probably just reminded him of Sodom. “I have to _try._ ”

“You can’t stop whatever’s going to happen here, Aziraphale. Sometimes… me and you, we’re in situations where whatever we do, we can’t stop it.” Crawly shifted awkwardly. His eyes were fixed on Aziraphale’s. “I do understand that.”

Aziraphale shook his head. Crawly’s soft voice and unblinking gaze was weakening him. He couldn’t allow himself to think about the accusations which Crawly had thrown in Egypt, or his own private agreement… No. He wasn’t a coward; he was trying not to be, at least. He would prove it. “I’m going back.” He tried to step forward, but Crawly held out a hand. Something sparked to the left and right, and Aziraphale found a barrier. “Crawly!”

“It’s for your own good.”

Aziraphale was red-faced with fury. He gave Crawly’s make-shift barrier another weak shove. It was as strong as Hell, quite literally. There were so many demons in the area, the air crackling with so much infernal magic, that Crawly could hold out an angel without breaking a sweat. He’d spent all his energy healing him, and this was how the _snake_ repaid him… “Let me in!”

“Go back to Hattusa. It’s not safe for an angel here.”

That was too far; Aziraphale yelled in frustration and hurt. “Stop it! Stop it, stop it, stop it, _it won’t work_!”

Crawly made a face at him. “Stop _what_? I’m trying to help you, you stubborn idiot!”

“This! This… pretending to care what happens to me. It won’t work! I won’t be fooled again. I know what you are now.”

Crawly exhaled, and his face relaxed into something cold and sinister. “Fine. Sure thing. I won’t pretend anymore.” He shoved out his hands, and Aziraphale staggered back. “The Troad’s ours. Sod off back to your slaves and your sheep-fuckers.” He grinned, and for a second he looked just like Cassandra. He shoved again, and Aziraphale fell back. “Thanks for the rescue, angel! More fool you!”

“Crawly!” Aziraphale shouted. “Bring it down!”

Crawly turned the wave into a rude gesture. He ran out onto the plain, and left Aziraphale alone with his failure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter we're in Exodus 14 and Iliad Book 12! I'm so grateful for all of your comments; I am replying to them as quickly as I can, but they take just as long as a chapter for me, I want to reply properly to you all. Thank you for being so patient with me!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I wanted to say thank you, thank you, thank you so much for all of your comments. <3 I have a favour to ask: I'm becoming aware that soon I'll need to pick up my academic work again to prepare for my viva, and that it's taken nearly 50,000 words to reach 1000 BCE. Your comments are the single biggest motivation to write and to write quickly, but replying to them all takes a very long time. I love talking to you, I just feel very self-conscious and anxious while I'm doing it! In the interest of getting a few chapters written quickly, I'm going to ask you to forgive me if I don't reply for a while - every single comment is just so brilliant and makes me so happy, they spur me on so much! In exchange I'll crack on and get the next chapter written as quickly as I can! <3
> 
> There's talk in this chapter of Aziraphale's Demotion. It very closely follows the non-AU version I wrote which is a stand-alone piece in Chapter 5 of The Strong Tower, but you don't need to have read that first. And apologies to any Hellenists, in this and the last chapter I've followed the Jewish tradition (taken up by Milton in Paradise Lost) that foreign gods are demons!

It didn’t make _sense_ , thought Crawly.

The darkness inside the wooden horse was absolute, but the stench was tangible: it was solid, the smell of twenty sweating men in their leather armour, of the bucket of piss in the front left foot. Crawly wrapped magic around his head to keep it out, and it smelt of waterlilies and wildflowers. Like the angel.

Bless it! He had been trying to work out for the last few weeks why the stupid bloody creature had saved him after his fight with the eagle. The demonic barrier he’d created ran from coast to coast, cutting off the whole Troad, but he’d seen Aziraphale flying overhead a few times. The last time it happened Iris had flown off to engage him, and returned to the fray with a rainbowing bruise across her face.

It had seemed like a smart idea. Beelzebub had grown sick of the destruction in Hell after the whole Rotten Apple situation, and had handed out Earth passes left, right, and centre for the Trojan War. Crawly had thought, wouldn’t hurt to be seen to be engaging with one’s infernal colleagues. Doing the appropriate. Being social. Never hurt to let one’s workmates see how easily you could tear a throat out.

The problem was his fellow demons. Some of them, mostly Legionnaires, seemed to have a weird case of hero-worship, trailing after him with flattery and grease, whether because he was the Serpent of Eden or because they wanted some work experience topside. Unfortunately, their ideas of sucking up included things like bringing him slave-girls to rape, and then he had to go through the whole bloody charade of _that_ before vanishing them to any living relatives or a nice seaside village far away from the war. Apparently, the rumour went around that Crawly ate them after having his wicked way with the poor things. Live prey…

The others were worse. The others loathed him, and were visibly waiting for him to fuck something up. It was almost comforting, knowing that Apollo and Ares and Hera were all waiting for him to slip up. Demons tended not to stab you in the back, because then they didn’t get to see all the lovely faces you made when they stabbed you in the front.

Whatever their particular flavour of evil, they were, down to the last demon… boring. _Boring_. Banal. None of them could hold a decent conversation. They held nothing but contempt for humans. Sense of humour – what was that? No mirth, no mischief – no, just blood and death and insults, all day, every day.

Aziraphale was never boring. You’d think his innocence and naivety would be boring, but no. Just the _faces_ he made when Crawly said something shocking or wicked were so funny, so gratifyingly expressive. And that innocence just made it so much more entertaining when he came out with a bitchy remark, or took some petty revenge on a patron who was rude to the waitress. He was good at that. No random murder or cannibalism; instead he’d do something seemingly simple like make the man’s tunic unbearably itchy, and he and Crawly would slowly slide into drunken apoplexy as they watched from their corner.

It was genuine innocence. That was what made it so maddeningly intoxicating. Of all the angels he’d encountered since his Fall – and even, perhaps, before – Aziraphale was the one who really seemed to give a fuck about humans. He’d given them his sword. And he’d given Crawly shelter, that first night in the sandstorm…

Crawly knuckled his eyes and tried to make himself comfortable. Fucking pathetic situation, if he preferred spending time with an angel to with a bunch of demons. Cool demons! Relatively. Cooler demons than most, at least. Good looking, fond of the wine…

And besides, it wasn’t like he and Aziraphale would be getting drunk together any time soon. The angel hated him, after that whole… unfortunate situation. Then the fight. Aziraphale’s _dick move_ with the snakes; that was personal, the petty bastard. Then the spitting and spite after the Plagues.

But Aziraphale had saved him…

It didn’t matter. Crawly had burnt that bridge to ashes, turned the ashes into lye, and then thrown the lye in Aziraphale’s face.

As a good demon should.

Odysseus gave him a nudge. “Thank Satan,” Crawly said softly, and tightened the straps of his armour. He’d see what he could do about the angel’s prophet-princess.

*

So, yeah, it hadn’t gone brilliantly for Cassandra.

The problem with parties in Hell was that you couldn’t even lean against a wall, because of the smelly dampness that coated each one. That was one problem. The others were the lack of drinks other than blood or weak beer that tasted like diluted piss (Crawly was still debating the pros and cons of introducing wine to Hell, because once that was out of the box there’d be no putting it back in), and of course, the presence of one’s fellow demons.

Apollo and Artemis, sore losers both, were drowning their sorrows in the guts of some poor Greek soldiers. Or, Apollo was – Artemis just liked to watch. Aphrodite had been on the losing Trojan side, but she remained the overall victor of the original issue, so she helped Hermes support Athena during a keg stand with reasonable good grace. Poseidon and Zeus were playing beer pong with skulls that hadn’t even been cleaned.

Crawly finished his beer and thought that he ought to have picked the blood instead. He wove his way slowly around the party, making sure to look as obnoxiously smug and sadistic as possible. He was looking for someone in particular.

It had taken a while, but a lot of the Watchers had now managed to integrate themselves among the original Fallen. The leaders like Shemhazai couldn’t get used to kow-towing to their Inferiors, but some of the followers had been quite happy to switch loyalties and had been keen to emphasise their rape and idolatry rather than their conspiracy.

One of the few leaders who’d been more savvy than proud was Kakob. He and Crawly had been on nodding terms before the Fall, when Kakob had been Kokabiel, the Star of God. He’d taught astrology to the humans, but in Heaven he’d been an overseer of the cosmological construction crews. He was chatting to Ares about the wooden horse when he spotted Crawly. “Demon of the hour!”

“Ah,” Crawly said, and waved his hand. “Took bloody ages to get the message into Odysseus’ thick skull. Kakob, could I have a word?”

Crawly and Kakob stepped out of what could only charitably be called a party into the corridor. The ex-Watchers had a weakness which would make one that much easier to tempt. They had been to Earth. They had spent time on Earth, they had had families, and they knew how pleasurable Earth had the potential to be. None of them were allowed up, of course, given what they had got up to there last time.

“I need some gen,” Crawly said. “Heavenly gen.”

The smile vanished from Kakob’s face. “Get the fuck away from me.”

“I know it’s rude, I know,” Crawly said, hands up. “Totally get it. Dick move on my part. But I can make it worth your while.”

“I very much doubt that, Crawly…” Heat and light were beginning to swirl around Kakob’s clawed hands.

“I have wine,” Crawly said quickly.

Kakob stared at him. “Wine.”

“Two amphorae of it. Lovely brambly amber from the land of the wolves, and a white from the mountains near Elam.”

The hot, sick starlight flickered. “… all right, Crawly, you have my attention. Where is it?”

Crawly jerked his head. “Nowhere anyone else can drink it before we get a chance to. It won’t be anything personal. There’s one particular angel who’s being a stone in my sandal, I just want to know about him. Have a few drinks, have a chat, then you can tell me to fuck off and drink the rest yourself.”

He watched Kakob pretend to consider it, but Crawly was Hell’s first, greatest Tempter. He’d had Kakob at ‘wine’.

*

Crawly led him away to a forgotten boiler room. It was freezing cold, which meant the wine was nicely chilled.

Kakob leant on the back legs of his chair, feet on a desk, and closed his eyes in bliss. The starfish he wore like a hat waved its arms slowly. “Fuck, that’s good.”

Crawly tasted it and agreed. “Tell me as much as you can remember and I’ll see what I can smuggle down next time…”

Kakob gave him a cautious nod. “All right. So. What do you want to know?”

“I keep running into this angel on Earth. He’s… weird. Keeps behaving totally unpredictably. If I’m going to deal with him, I need to know more about him, so I was wondering if you ever ran into someone called Aziraphale?”

Kakob made a noise in between a hyena’s bark and a scream; Crawly nearly jumped out of his skin, then he realised that Kakob was laughing. “You know him?”

“Aziraphale?! _Everyone_ knows Eden Aziraphale!”

Crawly took a careful sip of wine. “Why?”

“Same reason everyone down here knows about _you_. Eden. Aziraphale… Bless, I haven’t thought of him in a while. Don’t you remember him?”

“I remember he had white hair. Still does. Bit useless?”

“Exactly. He was meant to be guarding the Tree of Knowledge when you did your whole thing. And, you know, _Her_ , She’d given him a flaming sword to keep the humans out as punishment, so as they’re leaving he gives it to them instead. Gabriel caught him in the act.”

“Classified tech. Same thing you and the other Watchers…”

Kakob swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Careful, Crawly. Yeah. Gave away classified tech. But it was different when we… Shit, I haven’t talked to anyone about this in fucking years. Top me up.”

Crawly refilled both cups.

“So, if we’re talking Falls… After you lot did, things began to change in Heaven. I reckon they were worried about another rebellion. All became… more focused on the fighting side of things, now that there was someone to fight. Now that _disobedience_ was a thing, obedience was _huge_. Big shift towards discipline, hierarchy, following orders. … I don’t know who decided it, or who built it, but they made this huge theatre. Theatre of Judgement. A circle at the bottom with a bright light shining down, and rows going up and up: Seraphim, then Cherubim, then I was there with the Thrones. They wanted us all to see.”

Crawly’s mouth felt dry despite the wine. “To see what?”

“What happens to angels who fuck up. Everyone was called in, even the ones working on Andromeda. Gabriel said that he’d let you tempt the humans, so he’d be punished for his lack of vigilance, and for giving away the sword. Gabriel said that was treason. So everyone waited, you know, and I was a few rows up but I could see Aziraphale just _shaking_. He was crying. _‘I’m not a traitor, I love God, I love Heaven, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, they were just cold and scared and she was pregnant.’_ He must have convinced Her because he didn’t Fall. So they demoted him instead.”

Crawly nodded. “He’s a Principality now.”

“Seriously?” Kakob sipped his wine. “Must have been promoted again, because they busted him right down to angel. Go- Satan, it took ages. That was when I first started having doubts, actually. It was one thing with you guys, you guys had real passion for the cause, you guys wanted _change_ … He’d just been an idiot who felt sorry for the humans. All the Cherubim I spoke to about it said he’d always been odd. Bit of a weirdo. But totally harmless, you know? _I_ think the Archangels wanted him to Fall, and when he didn’t they were stuck. So they demoted him and made us all watch.”

Crawly frowned. “Made you watch?”

Kakob finished his wine in a long draught. “Yeah. Gimme another.”

“What, did they take away one of his medals and tell him not to be so naughty in the future?” He handed back the cup.

Kakob laughed, but there was no longer any amusement. “Oh, they took _something_ for sure. One, two… five somethings.” The other demon stared at him. “He was a _Cherub_ , Crawly. Keep up. Three heads and two wings too many.”

The room they were drinking in was cold and humid. Moist. Crawly felt a heat as dry as a desert wind. “How did they- You can’t just. It’s not like they’re _tied on_.”

“No. They cut them. Right there, in front of all of us. And he was crying and wailing – he kept _begging_ , as though they were going to stop after the first head! It took two of them to hold him still. By the time they got to his wings he’d realised it was inevitable, he was silent then. We all were.”

“This is _Aziraphale_?” Crawly asked desperately. “White, curly hair – light eyes?” He sat up straight, made his face a picture of nerves, wrung his hands. “Speaks like this?”

“Yes! Good impression. But yeah, that’s him.” Kakob was making short work of the wine. “Lot of blood. Dunno what they did with the heads; they turned the wings into a robe. Understood why when I got down to Earth for the first time. I mean… I had doubts after the Rebellion. About Heaven. We all did. But that… I thought, damn, if that’s what they give you now for a first offence – not even any deliberate treason, you know, just being a soft-hearted div – so later I just thought, fuck it. Might as well Fall for something fun. And the human girls were fun.”

“Right.” Crawly felt sick. He’d been downing the wine to keep up with Kakob, and it felt like it was going to make a reappearance. He couldn’t reconcile what he’d just heard with _Aziraphale_. It made no sense. And yet he could see it in his mind, as clear as day: Aziraphale apologising. Begging. He knew what Aziraphale looked like, after all, when he cried. He hadn’t removed his robe, that night. Crawly had thought it was shyness… “So… when was he promoted again?”

“Not a clue. None of us never saw him again. We thought he’d Fallen.”

Crawly shook his head. “He was on Earth. The South Pole.”

Kakob laughed again. It was dark and cold now. “Nah. He wasn’t.”

“He was. Preaching loving-kindness to the penguins or something.”

“He wasn’t. He wasn’t anywhere on the material plane. Earth was the first place I looked! I was a Watcher, remember? Full access to Earth Surveillance. I was curious. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. How silent we all were when they were sawing his wings off. It ate me up inside. No one saw him in Heaven for centuries, so I thought he’d Fallen. Who wouldn’t renounce God after something like that? Then we got down here and he wasn’t in Hell either. And now you say he’s still an _angel_?” Kakob quirked a small, strangely sincere smile. “Unpredictable as ever. Maybe he’s just too stupid to Fall.”

“Yeah.” Crawly didn’t drink his wine. His hands were shaking, and he didn’t want Kakob to see. “He’s my counterpart. Meant to be… thwarting. You’re _sure_ he wasn’t on Earth?”

“Positive. So, shall we open the amber?”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm overwhelmed by the comments to my last chapter; I'm so lucky to have such generous and supportive readers! Thank you so much to every one of you.
> 
> I hope you're all healthy and safe, and your friends and families. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place a little before David sees Bathsheba bathing on the roof (2 Samuel 11), so please forgive the a little reference to 'Hallelujah'. Hopefully this one explains why Aziraphale was a bit distracted at the time. The psalm David's singing is Psalm 69.

The next time Crawly saw the angel was in the fortified city once called Jebus. Now it was simply called Ir David, after the king who had conquered it, and turned it into his own royal fortress.

Crawly was dressed as a female merchant, one who specialised in bringing luxuries to be examined and bought in royal harems, so that the wives and women of important men could shop without being seen. It was the best way to get a look around the city and the palace in this season; they were well into the month of Adar, halfway through the campaign season. The rains were over, but the grass had not yet withered, leaving food for the horses. The Israelites were slaves no longer; now they were warriors, and they were victorious ones.

Which is why he was surprised, when he was led to the reception room of the women’s quarters, to see Aziraphale, with short hair uncovered. In any other harem Crawly would have assumed he’d taken his go-to form of a eunuch, but eunuchs weren’t allowed within the Jewish religious community, and Crawly didn’t think he’d hobble himself like that. He must have a royal dispensation, and indeed there were two other men in the room. Both of these were bearded, so not eunuchs either. If his guess was correct, then one was the prophet Nathan, and the other was the famous King David, who had infamously decided to sit out this campaign season.

It was the talk of the army, Crawly knew. Becoming soft. Losing interest. That’s what some of the younger men said, the ones who hadn’t seen their king in action.

He was a handsome man, certainly, but not soft. Crawly could see the ghost of youthful beauty in the lines of his face, but it had hardened into something bright and solemn, like a carved jewel, as the king approached middle age. His hair had been dark once, perhaps, but the years of sunlight had given the thick curls a sheen of copper. His body was lean, his abdomen was hard, his arms were muscled, but he held a harp as gently as a woman with her new firstborn.

He was giving a concert.

The harp had twice as many strings as any other Crawly had seen, and the king was wringing sounds out of it that he had never heard before. A minor fall, a major lift, then a chord which smote the heart. Crawly listened in astonishment, his display cases forgotten.

And David’s _voice_ – there was something divine there. It created a phantom pain in the absence behind Crawly’s sternum; it made him want to drop to the floor, to crawl on his belly, to kiss the feet of that God-blessed human. There were clusters of fire behind his eyes. There was beauty so exquisitely painful it made him want to fling himself out of the high window down into the Kidron Valley below.

_“It is for your sake that I have borne reproach, that shame has covered my face,”_ sang the King. _“I have become a stranger to my kindred, an alien to my mother’s children.”_

Crawly looked at Aziraphale. He was a strange sight.

He was still wearing the same faded blue robe he’d worn in Egypt and Troy, but in acknowledgement of the prosperity of David’s court he now wore it with a sash of _tekhelet_ -dyed silk, embroidered with gold. From it hung the same old alabaster jar from that terrible night in Waset. His scribe’s satchel was made of tooled leather, and his wax tablets were cedar wood, inlaid with brass and bone.

He was transcribing the song as quickly as David sang. His face was as bright as a star, unnoticed behind the wives and other women, and Crawly saw on it the same mixture of joy and devastation he felt within his own heart. Tears poured down his cheeks as quickly as the letters poured from his hand.

_“Insults have broken my heart, so that I am in despair. I looked for pity, but there was none; and for comforters, but I found none.”_

Aziraphale’s shoulders heaved in grief, and the angel looked up for just a second from his work. Crawly lost all desire to approach the king. Within the range of that voice, of that _music_ , all his protective lies fell away, and the honesty of his own feelings assailed him.

If he could go to Aziraphale and embrace him – to tell him how sorry he was about the night that they had had- To say come on, let’s get drunk, I haven’t got drunk with anyone fun for centuries and we used to have a laugh, didn’t we? I didn’t know about… I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I have pity now, if you want it. Please don’t _cry_.

Aziraphale was still writing, despite his grief. The consummate professional scribe. Crawly remembered another time Aziraphale had been a scribe: Susa. The king had given out coronation presents… A bangle of pink shell that had matched Aziraphale’s skin perfectly. And a carnelian stylus.

Chedorlaomer! That was the king. He’d given his scribes carnelian styluses etched in white, in the Indus style, and Crawly had admired Aziraphale’s. Instantly, Aziraphale had tried to gift it to him.

_“Besides, won’t you get into trouble if the king sees you without the fancy pen he gave you?”_ Crawly had asked.

Aziraphale had gone white.

And Crawly had reassured him, and manifested a bangle of the same design. It formed around his wrist now, carnelian specked with a design in white… Aziraphale had looked at him with open adoration, and Crawly had inwardly snickered over the angel having a crush on him. He’d thought it was only what he was due, for being so much more cool and sexy than an idiot like Aziraphale… The memory made him feel ill.

The king finished his psalm, and the audience surged forwards to congratulate him. It must have been a new composition. Crawly, unnoticed in the antechamber, watched the social eddies and currents.

Aziraphale exchanged a few words with the king, wiping his eyes and laughing, letting David look over his transcription. Then he meandered through the crowd of women. The wives Crawly later learnt were called Haggit and Abital actually veered away from him. Only Abigail lingered to exchange pleasantries and discuss the psalm. The prophet, Nathan, seemed to be trying to extricate himself with little luck; Aziraphale caught him, his face alight with some hushed question.

“I told you,” said Nathan. “If there ever is, I’ll let you know immediately. Stop _badgering_ me.”

“Oh, of course, so sorry,” Aziraphale said, but the prophet was already sweeping away. He turned around, and Abital immediately turned her shoulder to him.

Aziraphale and Crawly stared at each other.

Crawly held up one of his packs. “Silks, jewellery, perfumes, ointments! Kohl, carmine, malachite eye-shadow all the way from Egypt; aloes, henna, balsam, cinnamon, cassia…”

“Oh, marvellous,” said Abigail. “We’re all so excited. It’s time for the day sleep – could you set up everything in here, and I’ll gather everyone when we’ve woken again?”

“Of course, my lady,” Crawly said with a bow. “It’s a warm day. Please, whenever you and the ladies are most comfortable.”

“Have you any dyes, mistress?” Aziraphale said. His eyes were grey and stony. “For inks.”

“Let me see what I have; I know I have burnt walnuts. They dye the hair as black as the night. Perhaps they would work for inks?”

“We need to go through – please, go ahead and set up, you’re perfectly safe with Aziraphale,” Abigail said. She followed the king and the prophet out, leading the other wives.

Crawly raised his eyebrows. “Left alone with a strange man, is my virtue really safe?”

One strike, one hit; Aziraphale went beautifully pink. “What are you doing here, Crawly?”

“Plying my wares.” Crawly smirked. “Awakening vanity, lust, greed, envy. Much more fun than butchery with the men.”

The lavish room was stifling. The heat was rising; the cool water brought up for the king’s pleasure from the cisterns made the brass cups sweat. Crawly trailed one finger across one, gathering the dew. “Though the butchery seems to be paying well. Brass cups? Shouldn’t you be stamping down on this kind of luxury?”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale said haughtily. “I suggested them.”

“Why? To show how well God’s favourite is doing?”

“It’s so typical of you, Crawly. To be so concerned with appearances. No, I’ve encouraged the brass cups because… How to explain?” Aziraphale looked around, and his shoulders relaxed a little. “Have you ever become small – very, _very_ small, I mean? Invisible. Smaller than a grain of sand cut into four, and each quarter cut into four again. The world is utterly teeming with tiny animals. Billions upon billions of them. It’s really quite remarkable. A whole invisible creation, underneath the one we can see at this size. Like any animals, some of these are dangerous; if they go inside the humans they can run riot, cause all sorts of nasty illnesses. But the brass – anything with copper, I think, the tin didn’t work nearly so well – kills some of these tiny animals. So I’ve been trying to persuade anyone who can afford it to let their water stand in brass jars for a while before they drink it.”

There was a pain in Crawly’s throat. He smiled through it. “Ah. Well, in that case, very virtuous.”

Aziraphale was looking at him again. His shoulders were down; had his wings been out, he would have been tense, but not busking anymore. “I heard what happened to Cassandra.”

“Ah. Yeah.” Crawly fiddled with his new, old bangle. “I did try. Try to find her. I looked through the whole palace. But she’d gone to the altar of Athena…”

“And did Athena save her?” Aziraphale’s smile was unusually dark. It didn’t look good on him. “Did she protect her loyal devotee?”

“You know she didn’t,” Crawly said. “She punished the man who did it, though. Ajax. Her and Poseidon.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right, then!” A muscle worked in his neck. “I could have helped her. Somehow. I should throw you out of this palace right now.”

“And you haven’t because you know you’d have died – or been captured and tortured for intelligence, angel. Maybe you weren’t worried about that. Can’t give what you don’t have.” The unkindness was a reflex; Crawly gave a little snarl and swallowed an apology. “That was a joke.”

“Hilarious.” Aziraphale tried to make himself look taller, as though that would suggest righteousness. “I won’t throw you out because for good to be conclusively triumphant, there must be an opportunity to choose evil. So you can try your luck, and I will suggest the treasury’s money can be better put to serving God, and _then_ I will throw you out of the palace.”

Crawly almost laughed. “And you think those wives will choose to donate their pocket money to the temple or buy bread for orphans? Aziraphale, please. Your best bet for them doing that is to not say a word to them; they don’t trust you, so if you tell them not to buy fancy jewellery half of them will to show you who’s boss. Human nature.”

Aziraphale was tense and tight again. “How do you…? Can you sense that?”

“No. I can see it. Because I have eyes.”

Aziraphale looked away, and Crawly saw his mouth twist. Amid his dawning horror was something like _wonder_ ; wonder that someone who had his head and wings cut off in front of millions of angels could get upset over a few snobby humans in some minor kingdom not liking him. It made no sense whatsoever.

“It’s not your _fault_ ,” he tried. “You just don’t smell right.”

“Oh, that’s fine then!” Aziraphale said. He blinked, and looked right up at the ceiling. “I just _smell_. Perfect.”

“No! Satan, you’re so stupid.” This comforting stuff was _hard_. “You… you know when you can sense love, or if someone’s upset, or needs help? I can _smell_ stuff instead. You don’t smell human, that’s all. It’s not a bad thing. You smell like snow... Instead of sweat and shit and dirt and… Okay, so, I’m on talking terms with this succubus downstairs, and she told me that all humans secrete chemicals that other humans smell and recognise. They just don’t know it. The smells make them attractive to each other. It’s like how bees communicate – you like bees.”

There it was: the briefest flash of feeling behind that blank, apathetic stare. A candle behind a veil, the scent of water in the desert. Aziraphale’s expression was odd and wide-eyed. “I do…”

“Yeah.” It hurt to remember, Aziraphale’s monologue about how wonderful and clever bees were in that tavern in… where was it? Mara? “Our corporations seem human, but they’re not. Apparently they don’t make these human-communication-sweat-chemicals on their own; Kamadme, the succubus, she said she has to consciously put the effort in to making them if she wants to seduce someone. Just mimics whoever she’s trying to put the moves on. And it’s because you _don’t_ stink that they don’t like you. You smell too clean, none of those weird… They subconsciously know you’re not human and have no idea why, so they just mark you down as being uncanny or creepy instead. It’s nothing to do with what you’re doing or saying. It’s not personal, I mean.”

“You really think so?” Aziraphale asked quietly. “I thought it was just… the other angels never seemed to like me much either, and they’re the same. No… attraction-sweat-chemicals there, I mean.”

Anger burnt in Crawly’s breast, as hot and clean as a pure flame. There was no smoke or stink to this fire. “Yeah, but angels are, as a rule, stupid, stuck-up, arrogant, incurious idiots with no taste.”

Aziraphale blinked. Instead of smiling, he stepped away, and curled in on himself. “Well. Thank you, I suppose… If that was a compliment.”

“I suppose it was. Accidental, I promise.”

The faintest quirk of the mouth. “What should I do, then? What do you do?”

“If I need to persuade them, tempt them… Wait, I know.” Crawly knelt down and rummage through one of the chests of perfumes he was selling, and found a bottle of Egyptian glass. “Humans are mad-cracked on this. Oil of myrrh.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Aziraphale. “We use the solid tears as incense at the sacrifices. It’s in the anointing oil…”

“Right, well,” Crawly said, and held it out.

Aziraphale stared at him.

“It’s a present. Unh. It’s… acknowledgement that, _maybe_ , things didn’t go brilliantly in Troy. You saved me a discorporation, and… Just take the bloody bottle!”

The angel was looking at him so tentatively. “Do I pour it on me? Like the anointing oil?”

“No! Bloody Heaven, you’ll smell like you’ve had sex with a tree. Or a whore’s chamberpot – no, here,” Crawly said, and let a few drops fall onto his fingertips. “Gimme your wrists.”

Aziraphale obeyed him, and it sent a frisson through Crawly, head to heart to loins to feet. The trust in it. The vulnerability. He could see Aziraphale’s veins, like the veins of a cornflower… He took the angel’s wrists, and rubbed his oil-smeared thumbs on the soft undersides. “Don’t go mad with it. Just a couple of drops, and warm it between your fingers. Then rub it into the pulse points, helps to diffuse it. The way you flap your hands, that’ll help the scent fan out as well…”

He was smiling, but that made Aziraphale feel awkward; Crawly could feel it though his skin, and Aziraphale’s hands escaped like scared birds.

Then he smiled back. “Oh! Oh, I can smell it… Woody. It’s a little sweet…”

“Right?” Crawly grinned. “Why humans will spend a fortune trying to smell like a tree I don’t know, but it’s better than the other things they could smell like. You can have the bottle.”

“That’s very kind, Crawly, but I couldn’t…”

“Please. Otherwise I’m in your debt for Troy. I know you don’t think keeping you out of the peninsula was a gift, so… It’ll have to be this instead.”

“All right…” Aziraphale glanced up to Heaven anxiously. “You really think this will help?”

“Yep. They’ll smell expensive perfume instead of an absence. Definitely a better impression.”

“And I just wear it on the wrists?”

“In this form – if you want you can mix a little in some olive oil, then you can do your hair, your feet, whatever you like. Oh, and-“

Crawly reached out his hands, and put them to Aziraphale’s neck. The angel froze, every muscle tense, and Crawly idly wondered what the fuck he had just done and how much a smiting would hurt.

But nothing happened. Crawly gently pressed his fingertips to the small crevices between Aziraphale’s ears and his jaw. He could feel Aziraphale’s breath on the inside of his palms, and his pupils were black…

Neither of them were blinking.

Crawly drew his fingers down the side of Aziraphale’s neck. “Like thisss. Pulse pointsss…”

He was remembering the way Aziraphale had looked at him in Waset – how strange and how lovely it had been to kiss him. Bless it. How much he missed him, with his affronted innocence and unrelenting compassion and his strange observations and bitchy jokes. How much he missed having a friend.

His left hand fell to the curve between Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder, and suddenly the skin beneath his fingers felt different. He saw Aziraphale’s pupils contract to pinpricks, and the next thing he knew he was flying backwards through the air, and the inch-thick cedarwood door behind him was smashed to splinters.

He groaned, pulling whatever magic he could to heal his spine, and the bottle of oil of myrrh exploded next to his head.

“Get out! _Get out_!” Aziraphale shouted at him.

“I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know-“

“Get _OUT!_ ” Holy fire flickered around Aziraphale’s hands, and Crawly fled. All he could smell was myrrh.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your comments, my dears - they are so motivating and uplifting, especially as things have been difficult this week. <3 I hope you're all safe and well, and we join Aziraphale in Babylon in about 580 BCE...

Of all the wicked, idolatrous pagan festivals which Aziraphale had had to endure, the twelve-day Akitu festival of Babylon was one of his favourites. No orgies, no floggings, no throwing poor little children into a giant bronze statue of Moloch heated by an enormous bonfire… No, just lots of poetry and plays and puppet shows, the trees decorated with garlands and ribbons, the houses with flowers and herbs. Street dancing and weddings, constellation-spotting parties, boat processions, a few mock battles around the city on the Sixth Day by fit young men not wearing very much. All rather fun.

The Fifth Day was always a treat for the people: they assembled to watch the king be stripped of his regalia and slapped silly by the high priest. If the pain was enough to make him cry, this showed sufficient humility to the god Marduk and he could be clothed and invested again.

This year, the Akitu festival would not be like the others Aziraphale had attended. This year, the population had grown. This year, three thousand, four hundred and twenty-odd years after the creation of the World, there was weeping beside the rivers of Babylon.

The shadows were long and the world was a deep, red gold. Aziraphale watched the priests of Marduk washing the Ésagila, and thought about what he would do. Some people were coping with their captivity better than others; he could think of some who would find the idolatrous celebration traumatic. He would spend the days with them, comforting and reassuring them that their presence in Babylon was not a sin, but an ordeal to be endured, and one that they _would_ endure. God loved Her people, and She delighted in their survival. They would endure.

A scrap of papyrus appeared in his hand; Aziraphale frowned and opened it.

_All angels within five hundred parasangs of Babylon are advised that the Celestial Intelligence Agency has received word that Marduk, Duke of Hell, is planning on being present with his entourage for the Akitu festival. All angels in the area are therefore advised to evacuate IMMEDIATELY, as the Heavenly portal will close at sunset._

_Signed, Gabriel, Archangel of the Presence, He Who Stands at the Left Hand of Almighty God, Ruler of the Universe._

Aziraphale exhaled sharply and looked to the west, as the last rays of the sun dipped and then disappeared. Gabriel’s seal gave him a static shock – it was perfectly genuine, not a cruel joke.

And yet it was. Because the only angel within five hundred parasangs of Babylon was Aziraphale, and he had received the message only seconds before the Heavenly portal had closed.

His hands shook. He supposed it would be very convenient for Gabriel if Aziraphale was captured and murdered by an infernal Ducal entourage.

Fleeing wasn’t an option. If he flew, he’d be too exhausted to defend himself if he was tracked or followed. Instead he plunged into the city. All attention would be on the temples, so he made for the palace. He needed to hide.

Throughout the palace, pitch torches and oil lamps were being lit. Aziraphale’s skin prickled, but the fear of being caught out by an angry Duke of Hell who enjoyed public and painful displays of power sharpened his mind. He didn’t have the time to panic, or think through Gabriel’s actions; his mind became as cool and clear as still water. The churning currents remained deep below.

He found a storeroom far away from both the kitchens and the reception rooms, down a dim corridor on the northern side of the palace, and cool enough to store wine that was to be aged rather than drunk. Once, it would have mostly been from the mountains of Media and Elam. Now, many of these huge jars held wine carried triumphantly from Judah…

He placed successive wards in the corridor itself; anyone, supernatural or human, walking down the corridor would suddenly remember important tasks to perform, orders they couldn’t be sure they’d properly carried out, or just desperately need to use the privy. He’d learnt that one from Crawly. Inside the door itself he created a heavy iron lock, and roped the handles tightly. He miracled thick, old clay around the lengths of rope, stamped with the king’s seal; he shouldn’t do more, he counselled himself; he didn’t want to draw any attention to this door, after all. He placed similar seals on a couple of nearby storerooms.

He could feel something in the air. Something dark and _excited_.

He didn’t want to place too much angelic power in the air; too much, and it would attract demonic attention. He walked through the door, and dared to use one final miracle to make a white light, like a star the size of a candle-flame, to light the interior.

He floated a foot off the ground. Above the door, his finger lit with blue flame, he wrote a shin, a dalot, and a yod. _Shomer Daltot Yisrael,_ Guardian of the Doors of Israel. Though She hadn’t been too much of a Guardian to Israel lately…

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean that. That was uncharitable, I know – I know You have Your plans. I’m very sorry.”

There was no answer, but he barely even hoped for one anymore. Her work was ineffable, and he could just hope that She would forgive his blasphemy as the result of lack of understanding and fraught emotions… “Save us for Your name’s sake,” he whispered, as he pressed as much power as he dared into the letters. “Shield us from every enemy…”

It was as safe a place as he could make for himself. He sank down, first to his feet, and then to his knees. He read the missive from Gabriel again. Perhaps it had been delayed in reaching him, somehow. Too much demonic energy building in the air for it to breach.

A wave of something strong and sick swept through the walls, and Aziraphale’s light flickered. He pressed himself into the space between two large amphorae and hugged his knees. Small, small, so small and unnoticeable as to be invisible…

The Akitu festival lasted for twelve days. Not a problem. Twelve days… And now he had his tablets and papyri too, shrunk to a miniscule size in the purse hanging at his waist. Twelve days. No problem at all. A little holiday, really.

There was a bang somewhere in the palace. A shriek. And the locked door bore down on him.

Aziraphale had no idea why his breath was short. He didn’t need to breathe. And he often made himself small and secluded himself in the _sau_ ’s old alabaster jar, hanging with his purse. He did it when he doubted too much, when his questions became too painful, or when he _knew_ he’d overstepped the bounds of his orders.

It showed willing. That he was willing to punish himself to demonstrate his repentance. To remind himself of what he risked. And sometimes… because it felt more calm, more familiar, than the press of thoughts and emotions and decisions of the Earth.

But this time he couldn’t leave. It didn’t seem to matter than he had set the locks and spells himself; for twelve days he was trapped, alone, and all his books couldn’t change that fact.

It’d go by in a flash, he assured himself. And he _could_ leave, it just might be… messy. He read Gabriel’s note again. He wondered if he ought to be out protecting the people if there were going to be demons everywhere, but he really wasn’t much of a fighter, and he’d probably just cause more trouble for them. Better to stay in here. Locked away.

He could feel himself sinking into himself. His corporation no longer felt like his body; it felt like cold flesh that he was wearing, strange and separate to him. He tightened his grip on his knees. Twelve days. He’d be fine. He’d voluntarily spent ten times that sleeping, immured in caves or in his alabaster jar. And he could always unlock the door.

So why would his hands not stop shaking?

He barely heard the sound of running until someone was almost at the door; with no ceremony, no attempts at lock or seal, just with a “ _-itshitshitshitshitshit-_ “, Crawly burst into his hiding place.

His first reaction wasn’t shock, or anger, or even uncomprehending surprise that Crawly had passed under the Shaddai. No, it was the same reaction he always felt in that first second of seeing Crawly: a sudden, bright lightness. A blooming of that rare feeling he had at the sight of a beautiful sky, or a cool waterfall on a scorching day, or warm bread, or a wildflower, or a baby laughing at her mother pulling faces…

And then he remembered.

Crawly was wearing a sleek black tunic, decorated with a dark red, gold-fringed shawl. He was wearing his copper hair in tight curls, which matched those of his _beard._

_“Aziraphale_? What the fuck are you- you can’t be here!”

Aziraphale swallowed, and tried to make it look as though he was hugging his knees nonchalantly. “And yet, here I am… Are you hiding from Marduk? I’d have thought you’d be enjoying the… the demonic holiday, or whatever else Hell’s planning.”

“With _Marduk_ as the MC? I doubt it.” Crawly was looking at him with concern. “Angel, if they find you here-“

“I know. Thus the hiding place.” He sighed. “Obviously not good enough.”

“Oh, that was… I looking for somewhere I could hide, so… why didn’t you put up any proper demonic wards?”

“All it would do is announce an angelic presence, wouldn’t it? Not all demons have been on Earth as long as you have, the humans ones might make some of them pause. But a Duke of Hell could pull down anything I erected, I imagine…”

“I know you don’t enjoy Heaven,” Crawly said softly, as though this wasn’t an utterly ridiculous thing to accuse an angel of, as though it didn’t casually demonstrate the worst and most broken part of him. “But Marduk is… He likes public humiliation. He likes ripping apart rib cages and making things from them. Can’t you fly up?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Portals are closed within five hundred parasangs. I could try flying out of the evac zone, but if I was spotted… So I thought I should try hiding instead. No one’ll notice my absence enough to go looking for me.” He thought that he’d done a reasonable job at keeping the bitterness out of his voice.

Crawly was looking up at the Shaddai, his face pale behind his thick beard. He tore his eyes back to Aziraphale. “As far as I know, you’re the only angel within five hundred parasangs – did they just close them?”

“They gave me a warning,” Aziraphale said carefully. “I missed it.”

“You missed your own evacuation?” Crawly said with audible exasperation, and it was so _unfair_ that Aziraphale wanted to cry, and it was unfair to Crawly too because Aziraphale was letting him believe it, and the whole thing was so bloody… bloody… It was so bloody obvious how alone he was. How no one gave a damn, and he was _tired_ and he was scared. And it was still less humiliating to let Crawly think that he was a scatter-brained fool than for him to know the truth.

His face twisted, just briefly, and he stood up. “Well, if you want to hide here, I’ll find somewhere else. There’ll be somewhere.”

“What?” Crawly stepped towards him. “Why?”

“Well, the last time we properly spoke, I threw you through a door,” Aziraphale said, “so I quite understand that if your goal is to hide from- from someone who could hurt you, then, well, I’d hardly be conducive to feelings of security on that point-“

Crawly took his elbows in both hands, and Aziraphale jumped. “Angel, you think I’m _scared of_ _you_?”

He didn’t even have it in him to be insulted by the insinuation. “I’ve hurt you plenty of times. I kicked you in the- in the-“ He gestured helplessly, cupping his hand and making an expression as though the imaginary bollocks would somehow taint him. “I threw you through a door-“

“That was accidental though, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale hated how gentle Crawly’s voice was. He needed to _go_ if he was going to have even the slightest hope of finding a decent hiding place. “You didn’t mean to. We were both pretty relaxed, pretty friendly – as much as we can be, anyway, fearsome enemies and all – but it was a physical reaction, wasn’t it? Involuntary?”

Aziraphale stared down at the flagstones. “It wasn’t deliberate.”

“I knew it wasn’t. Notoriously ticklish, the neck,” Crawly said, and Aziraphale suddenly wanted nothing more than to put his arms around Crawly and weep into his shoulder, as he had once before…

He stepped back. “I should go. I am sorry, for that- for the door, so if you- There’ll be-“

“Why do you need to go?” Crawly asked. “If you were planning on sitting out the whole festival, it’d be a bit more fun with some company, right? We could have a truce. I’m better at sensing anything dangerous or malicious coming, and you’re better at protective magic-“

“Miracles.”

“- protective _miracles_ , so… More likelihood of us both surviving. Bit of company. Might even be fun.”

Aziraphale writhed miserably. “It’d be inappropriate.”

“Oh, angel, _come on_ -“

“I threw you through a door-“

“And I said it was an accident! It’s fine! What’s the odd bit of violence between not-friends, eh? How many times have I bitten you?” Crawly was beginning to look a little desperate about the eyes – not that Aziraphale could see much else of his face, under that beard. “I forgive you, does that work? Does that do it for you?”

“Stop being so nice to me!” Aziraphale shouted, and then pressed his hands over his mouth. They listened in silence for a long moment.

When they both decided that no one had heard it, they exhaled together. Crawly stared at him. “Fine. Fine. I’m hardly a natural at apotropaic shit, am I? I don’t want Marduk and his cronies to find me and flay me or something. So. I’m asking you to stay. Please.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been so excited to do a Good Omens spin on the Book of Tobit for AGES. It's a great read (even if the story occasionally veers off into long speeches about whom to marry or the importance of burying the dead properly); in it, the demon Asmodeus is in love with a Jewish girl called Sarah in modern Iran, so every time she marries, he strangles the husband to death on the wedding night. Basically, instead of Raphael being in disguise as Azariah, who helps to get rid of Asmodeus, it's Aziraphale.
> 
> Jewish legend is full of stories about Solomon's power to control demons, and how he used them to build the Temple.
> 
> The pulsei denari are the lashes of fire, the traditional punishment for angels who disobey orders in the Talmud - they're mentioned in this chapter, but only briefly.

Worked like a charm. Aziraphale even insisted on giving up his spot between two amphorae with his back to the wall, so that he’d be between Crawly and the door instead. Crawly made sure to look suitably grateful and annoyed about it.

The first day was awkward. They spoke about Marduk, and Babylon, and everything that had happened in Jerusalem. To Crawly it felt like remembering half-forgotten dance steps; a sense of rhythm and a fear of tripping. Luckily he knew how to deal with that, and cracked open the first amphora.

They thought that they could get away with a _little_ magic, if it was Crawly doing it; an extra whiff of infernal power wouldn't be noticed. So he made cushions, and board games, and cups, and insulated their hideaway so that no sound could escape it, keeping Aziraphale’s little outburst in mind.

“And that’s home,” said Crawly, flicking his final disk off the dal-board.

“I’m sure you’re cheating,” Aziraphale said. “That’s the third game in a row.”

“Just lucky.” Crawly heaved himself up and refilled their cups. “Nice stuff, this.”

“From En Gedi, if I’m not mistaken. Thank you.” Aziraphale looked over the rim. “I heard about Solomon.”

“What a prick.” Crawly smiled. “More amusingly, I heard about _you_ and Asmodeus.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Oh, that!”

“Er, yeah, that! Principality takes down a Prince of Hell?”

“It’s really not as impressive as you make it sound.”

“Go on, then.”

“It was nothing – long, dull story,”Aziraphale said, flapping his hand. He leant back against the wall; they’d replaced the cold, blue-white light he’d conjured with one of Crawly’s, as warm and soft as a floating candle-flame.

“Maybe I’ll make you telling it your forfeit,” said Crawly. “Next time – I’ll win the next game too. This time… Tell the dirtiest joke you know.”

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open. “Crawly!”

“Oh, come on.”

“I- I can’t!”

“Not because you don’t know any, though,” Crawly said. “You read. You listen to people. You definitely know something filthy.”

“I close my ears to all of that kind of talk.”

Crawly snorted. “Yeah, I’ll bet. It’s your forfeit though. Take your time.”

“Well, if you won’t let go of it…” Aziraphale glanced upwards, as though he could see Heaven through the palace ceiling. “What hangs below a belt and goes deep into another person’s body?”

Crawly knew the correct answer, but obliged. “A cock.”

Aziraphale affected a look of astonished innocence that was totally different to his own usual expression of astonished innocence. “Crawly! No! A dagger!”

Crawly laughed, and the laugh became genuine at Aziraphale’s look of scandalised pride. “Very good, I like that one. All right, to counter: What hangs below a belt and contains great treasures?”

“A purse!”

“No! You’re mean to say ‘a vagina’, it doesn’t work if you give the right answer right away!” Crawly held up a finger. “All right. Okay, how about: to get me up you have to tie me down and put your pole inside of me.”

Aziraphale went bright red, visible even in the dim light. “Well, I- I mean- Oh dear. Um. Er. It’s, um.”

Crawly beamed. “It’s a _tent_ , angel. Honestly, your mind!”

“Oh, you-“ Aziraphale looked around. “I could _throw_ something at you!”

“Don’t waste the wine, and don’t blame me just because you have a filthy mind, angel. And a kinky one – didn’t know that about you.” Crawly winked lasciviously and Aziraphale gave him a soft kick. “That means I can dig out some of my best ones. You’ve grown so much…”

“Grown less and less innocent, maybe.”

“Grown more and more of a sense of humour. It’s a good thing. Right, okay: A young man’s feeling horny one day, but everyone’s gone to the market. The only person left in the house is his grandmother, but she’s a frisky old bird so they fuck. When his father comes home he beats the shit out of him, obviously, and the son says, ‘you fuck my mother all the time, but the _one time_ I fuck yours…!’”

“That’s disgusting. That’s abhorrent, Crawly!”

“Oh, come on. You must have heard worse from your prostitutes in Sodom. Your seamstresses.”

Aziraphale’s face softened. “You remember them?”

“Not their names. Achash rings a bell?”

“Achsah. She survived – she’s the one who went to Damascus with a caravan, before… I met her granddaughter. I went round the next time I was in the city and she said her granny had died four years before…”

“Yeah. Yeah. That tends to happen.” Crawly took Aziraphale’s cup and refilled it. “Well, here’s to Achsah. And the others.”

“Elisheba, Bithiah, and… there was another one. I’ll remember in a minute.” Aziraphale drank thoughtfully. “I remember you told me that’d have survived. They’d have known to run. It was kind of you.”

“Ah, it was lying. Deceit.”

Aziraphale smiled sadly at him. “Right.”

“Deceiving one of Heaven’s representatives.”

“Not really, I’m afraid. But it was a relief to try to believe it, for a while.”

“See,” said Crawly, leaning against one of the amphorae, “I don’t understand that. You believe something, or you don’t. Like you know something or you don’t.”

“Right now, I don’t know the name of the third of my seamstresses who died in Sodom,” replied Aziraphale, “but when I remember, it won’t be new knowledge. That’s like belief. It can come and go. You can try to summon it, or channel it, or banish it, and sometimes it works.”

“Huh. What if you never remember? What if that knowledge’s gone forever?”

“Sometimes belief goes forever too. Maybe it’s all the same thing. Belief is just remembering the good about something… Belief, knowledge, faith, maybe they’re all facets of the same jewel.”

“All vintages of the same vine.” Crawly raised his cup. “To knowledge?”

“Yes – to knowledge,” Aziraphale said, and toasted, and drank.

“On the topic of knowledge… There’s something I wanted you to know.” Aziraphale looked at him; in the dim light his eyes were dark, like polished stones. Cabochon jewels, not faceted. “I never told them. Hell. About… about that night, with you and me.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders fell. He sounded either relieved or… disappointed. “Oh, yes, of course. I knew that.”

“How the Heaven did you know?”

“Well, I spent a rather long and distinctly unpleasant time escorting Asmodeus to the nearest portal to Hell, didn’t I?”

“I hadn’t thought of that…” Crawly admitted. “Where was it?”

“The portal? I caught him in the Sedgeland. I didn’t want to go over the sea – I didn’t trust the bonds to hold if we were flying – so I brought him to Nekheb. I knew Nekhbet could be contacted in her temple, so I told the priests to let her know I had Prince Asmodeus and I was dropping him off. She came up personally. Very civil.”

“I was called down for a briefing about you,” said Crawly. “They wanted to know how a principality had exorcised a Prince of Hell. I said I’d been sending down reports for fifteen hundred years about what a pain in the arse you were.”

Aziraphale smiled modestly. “It’s quite a funny story, actually.”

“Please, for the love of Anybody, tell me. I’m so excited to hear about you being a pain in the arse of someone other than me.”

“As the whore said to the priest,” said Aziraphale, and surprised a shriek of laughter out of Crawly. “What was _that_?”

“Angel! I am… astounded. And so proud.” Crawly placed his hand over his heart. “A truly excellent piece of innuendo.”

“Well, thank you. Basically, I had to escort a young man called Tobiyah from Nineveh to Rages, to pick up some money his father had hidden with a friend. I decided we could take the Arba'ū ilū route; then we could cross the river at the Patti-Hegalli canal, which was still working fine at that point, of course. It was the most direct route, easiest river crossing, and it goes through that nice basin, you know the one? With Shusharra, where we had that duck cooked in garlic? Then through the mountains, across the plain to Ecbatana, and then one last push to Rages.”

“Yeah, seems like a sensible route,” Crawly easily agreed. “So what happened?”

“The _first night_ – we’re barely out of Nineveh. The city was visible! But Tobiyah, soft lad that he was, his feet hurt, so he decides to cool them down in the river. And a fish tries to eat him.” Aziraphale took a mouthful of wine. His face was beginning to soften under it. “Got his whole foot in his mouth before I could even get to the river!”

“What kind of fish was it?”

“What do you mean, what kind of fish? Bloody… bloody _massive_ fish. Looked like a pike or a carp or something.”

“Well, which? They look bloody different, pikes and carps. Carps are all flat and fat in the middle, and pikes are longer.”

“I don’t know! One of the two! But… _huge_.” Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. “ _Ineffably_ huge, one might say.”

“Ah...”

“Precisely. Precisely. I saw how big it was and thought, oh, this just _abounds_ with ineffability. Now, I don’t know whether it’s a pike or a carp or what have you, but I _have_ encountered that fish before. I was on my way to Mari after that wonderful time we had together in Yanshi…” A nervous smile fluttered across Aziraphale’s face like a moth. “In any case. I was in the same area, and I stopped for the night with a family by the Diyalas, and they’d caught one of these fish. They were preparing it with turmeric and onions and tamarind and salt -“ (Crawly never failed to be astonished by Aziraphale’s memory for meals) “- the most hospitable people I’ve ever encountered – but I never even tasted it! They slit it along the back to lay it out flat in the pan, and the woman tossed the guts aside, onto the brazier.”

Aziraphale shook his head at the memory. “Crawly, I was in Pi-Ramesses at the tail-end of the Plagues, so when I say that this was the worst thing I had ever smelt… I can barely describe it. It’s like it reached down my throat and strangled me from within. It was like dousing my spirit in acid. _Not_ my body. It didn’t affect the humans at all! It just smelt like cooking fish. My spirit. There was something in this fish that was preternatural, I was certain of that! But I’d got a great whiff of it – my word. Apparently, I tried to run out of the village and collapsed somewhere; they gathered me up and I woke up some time after dawn. I was as weak as a kitten for about three days.”

Crawly felt something warm in his own gut. It felt like pride. “So when young Tobiyah was attacked by the same fish, and killed it, you kept the guts.”

Aziraphale smiled back at him. “I kept the guts. Well. It was the liver and the heart, to be precise.” He patted the alabaster jar that hung at his hip. “I kept them in here. It might have been frivolous to keep them from smelling, but I swear, I would happily take the sixty _pulsei denari_ than smell those for the whole journey.”

“The sixty what?”

“I’ll tell you some other time,” Aziraphale said hurriedly. “In Ecbatana I arrange the marriage between Tobiyah and the poor girl Asmodeus was so obsessed with. He’d _murdered_ seven of her husbands, can you believe it? Every wedding night. So I said to Tobiyah, don’t, _you know,_ but pray instead. I’ll be in there, waiting, with the fish guts.”

“As the whore said to the priest. Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

“Oh, so now I’m the whore in this?” said Aziraphale. “How rude. Well, you can just go and ask Asmodeus the rest.”

“No, no, no.” Crawly grinned. “Go on.”

Aziraphale was smiling. “Well. I was covering my mouth and nose, and Asmodeus was incorporeal. He went absolutely mad – fled, shrieking. He can’t half fly! I sprained half of the muscles in my back trying to catch up with him, even with him incapacitated by the fish liver. Have you ever had a cramp in your wing bicep? Utter agony.”

“He has six wings, right?” Crawly asked suddenly. “Explains why he was so fast, even with the fish guts.”

“Yes. Yes… And I only have two.”

“Right.” Aziraphale’s face had gone still in the dim light. “But you beat him with cunning instead. And knowledge, hard won, to which we’ve already toasted. So you caught him, and bound him – did you beat him up? Please tell me you beat him up.”

“There was very little need! I wasn’t going to beat up someone who was on the floor, defenceless!”

“Aziraphale, for future reference: that is the _absolute prime time_ to beat someone up.”

“I couldn’t possibly!”

“It’s super easy. Totally the easiest time to do it.” Crawly couldn’t help but melt a little though, at Aziraphale’s outraged face. Outraged gentleness was a rather intoxicating thing. “And no one deserves it more than Asmodeus.”

“He’s a very unpleasant character, I must admit, but it’s the principle of the thing. It’d be different if he was a threat to someone else.”

“Or you,” Crawly said, and frowned when he saw the doubt on Aziraphale’s face. “ _Or you_.”

Aziraphale squirmed. “In certain situations – in this one, it _really_ wasn’t necessary. He was so sick from the smell and exhausted from the flight that I gave him the old one-two and he was on the floor. I’d have kicked him if I had to, but all the fight had gone out of him. I blessed some rope and tied him up, and then it was just a matter of walking him to the temple and trying not to get any spiritual bile on me. I’d have felt sorry for him if he hadn’t been such a beast to that poor girl! Every time I thought, oh, maybe I should let him rest for a while, maybe I should give him some… I mean, I didn’t know what to offer him, especially when he was incorporeal, but every time the thought occurred, I remembered poor Sarah, and I marched right on! I was absolutely implacable!”

“I’m sure,” Crawly said, chin in his hand, elbow on his knee. The idea of Aziraphale, ‘implacable’, bringing the Prince of Lust through the desert by the lead and wondering what he could give him to eat was doing very strange and uncomfortable things to him. It was a wonder Aziraphale was still alive, given how _bloody stupid_ he was. How stupid. And how kind.

“He had some idea that he was in _love_ with her; I said, how? You’ve never even spoken. She didn’t know you were there! And if she had, well, she’d never have fallen for you, I’m very sorry-“

Crawly’s stomach twisted. “Because he’s a demon?”

“Because he’s an egotistical brute who killed seven men and made her so hated about the whole city she was suicidal! Complete social death – shame – the poor child! I heaped blessings on her head when I got back, but when one’s felt like that before, it always leaves a shadow. Sorry, in any case, Asmodeus – not only was he a murderer who ruined her life… My God, what a conversationalist. Or lack of one. Self-absorbed, narcissistic – dull! Just… _boring_!”

Relief pooled, warm and welcome, in the bottom of Crawly’s torso. “Not all demons can be as sexy and funny as me. You were spoilt by the first demon you got to know.”

“Maybe,” Aziraphale said, and looked away. “So – met Nekhbet, perfectly cordial conversation, and down he went. I flew back to Ecbatana. Luckily I found some masseuses there, or I’d have been out of commission for weeks. I saw young Tobiyah on to Rages, back to Ecbatana to pick up Sarah, and guided them back to Nineveh. His father was blind – some sparrows, um, defecated in his eyes, there was a whole thing – so I healed them with the fish’s gallbladder – you remember the fish?”

“I remember the fish.”

“Good – good. So, my mission was accomplished, and I was able to show them a glimpse of my true self so that they’d give appropriate praise to God. I told them my name was Aziraphale, and I wished them a very happy marriage, I’d love to check in on them next time I was in the area. And the rest, you know, the usual – thank God, pray, sing praises, give alms, avoid sin. I caught up with Tobiyah and Sarah eventually. They moved back to Ecbatana after Tobit and Anna died, and you won’t _believe_ what had happened.”

“What had happened?”

“Basically… the story had got around so that it had been _Raphael_ who’d helped with the fish!”

“Raphael? No one’s seen him for… millennia!”

“He stays in Heaven.” Aziraphale sighed. “Ah, well. They were all all right, and that’s the important thing.”

“You don’t mind that Raphael got all the credit?” Crawly asked carefully.

“Oh, no! No no no no. You can see how it happened – I’d been saying my name was Azariah, suddenly I’m saying that my name is really Aziraphale; Azariah plus Raphael, it makes sense that they’d divide it into two if they were already thinking of me as Azariah, and they already knew the name ‘Raphael’ for an angel, so…”

“Uh-huh,” said Crawly.

“And it doesn’t matter what any _individual_ angel does – that was Lucifer’s problem, and look at how that ended up for everyone – sorry, that was tactless – what I mean is that if glory is given to God then that’s all that’s important! Humans would prefer an archangel too, wouldn’t they?”

“Uh- _huh_.”

“Probably _better_ for an archangel to receive the credit, on the whole they’re far, far more morally upright than me – positively _stubborn_ about righteousness – much less likely to fall into error. I’m notorious for that. Falling into error, I mean. Just look at you and me, and what we… In any case, I owed Raphael a favour. He helped me once, with something, and so all credit really ought to ultimately go to him anyway.”

“Right,” said Crawly.

Aziraphale’s chest was heaving. He drained his cup. “All for the best. Glory to God, and… and Raphael was very kind, really. Is! The kindest of the lot of them. He offered me a job in his laboratory, once, away from… not that that matters. I said I’d prefer to stay on Earth, and the rest, as they say, is history!” He gave a weak chuckle.

“Well,” said Crawly, “cheers to that at least. Let me top us up.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale, ever-courteous, and sniffed. He took his cup back from Crawly with a smile. “We’ll have to open another one soon.”

“I think we’ll need to sober up first, to be honest. Isn’t it amazing, how it suddenly hits you when you stand?”

“Mm – standing. Fresh air. Very dangerous things. But, um. You know, I, er. I did want to say. I know that you didn’t tell anyone in Hell, about that night. And I’m grateful.”

“Ah, fuck, Aziraphale, _no_.” Crawly put his cup down. “Don’t be grateful I didn’t betray you! That’s not how it should work…”

“But it _is_ how it works, isn’t it? You could have hurt me – had every reason to hurt me – and you didn’t. So I’m grateful.”

There was a painful lump in his throat. “No. Angel. What reason did I have to hurt you? No reason. No one in the universe has the least reason…” He tried to smile, and his eyes felt hot. “Except Asmodeus, maybe.”

Aziraphale didn’t smile.

“What reason do you think I had?” Crawly asked again.

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale’s voice was a whisper. “You said you needed something to give to Hell. A victory.”

“It wasn’t a victory,” Crawly said. “When I told them in Hell that I wouldn’t be able to give them a traitor… they didn’t even care. No one had thought I’d succeed, so failure wasn’t a surprise, and it was just… onto the next thing.”

Aziraphale was staring very fixedly at a corner of the ceiling. “Can we not? Crawly, please, I- I’ve been drinking, and I can’t- it hurts too much, to think about it. I know it shouldn’t, now, after a thousand years, but it still hurts and I can’t-“

“Why would time lessen it?” Crawly said.

“It was a thousand years ago.”

“That doesn’t make it any better. I think it makes it _worse_. Because then it’s been a thousand years you’ve been alone. That we’ve both been alone.”

“Don’t!” Aziraphale exhaled, and squeezed his eyes shut. “ _Please_. I can’t… We have to stay in here, and I can’t, if we’re going to… You didn’t tell Hell, and I’m grateful. And I told heaven, and it’s all… we’re both safe, and it’s fine, and we should just forget it.”

He should have left the subject. Crawly _knew_ he should, knew he could leave Aziraphale with his lie and sober them both up, play another game of dal, sing a song. Anything. Anything than say what every atom in his body was forcing him to say. “But you didn’t tell Heaven.”

Aziraphale opened his eyes. “What?”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been HARD, and this chapter just about destroyed me. I wrote four different versions of it, and eventually decided it was never going to feel quite right! Thank you for all your incredible comments, they are so motivational; when life has been feeling particularly grinding and cruel, and I thought that I'd never get this chapter right and should abandon the attempt, reading through all your kind words was what gave me the impetus to open up the document again! <333

“You didn’t tell Heaven,” Crawly said, and the air was suddenly full of the scent of terror. It was sickening. Fear so thick he could taste it, and his eyes could see Aziraphale’s temperature plummeting. A literal chill, and Aziraphale too drunk to control it.

“What do you-“ Aziraphale said, and glanced at the door; Crawly managed to reach out and grip the hem of his robe just as he staggered to his feet.

“Don’t, please-“

“I don’t-“ Aziraphale said, trying to make himself sober enough to deny it without using any magic. “No idea _what_ -“

He tried to tug his skirts from Crawly’s grip, and Crawly knew without a doubt that Aziraphale would run out into the palace, Marduk or no Marduk, rather than have that conversation.

“Sit down, sit down, please. Please. I’ll sober us up,” Crawly said, and snapped his fingers.

Aziraphale’s knees buckled. He slithered down to the floor, then tensed and tightened.

“Don’t leave,” Crawly said. “It’s too dangerous. Please.”

“Of course I told Heaven,” Aziraphale said. He was vibrating, the fear overladen now with the iron of anger.

“Right, yes. You did. I was… chancing,” Crawly chanced. “Sorry. I was drunk.”

Aziraphale pulled the hem of his robe free, swiftly wrapping himself in an indignant hauteur. He looked again at the door, and Crawly could see that his hands were shaking. “You think I’m a liar? That I lied to you? You’re the liar!”

“I am,” Crawly said, and held out his hands. “ _I’m a liar_ , said the liar. Remember?”

Their first meeting, in the middle of the sandstorm. Aziraphale’s face twisted. “Don’t. _Don’t._ ” He pressed back against one of the jars, huddling deep into his cloak, and glared at Crawly. “I’m going to read.”

“Great. Cool.” Something akin to privacy, trapped as they were together. “I might… dice,” he said, and magicked some. “What do you want me to make bigger for you?”

Aziraphale ignored him, bringing tablets out of the little purse at his belt. He must have created a pocket dimension for them. Crawly brightened their light instead.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Being- Doing kind things. I’m angry at you.”

“Right.” Aziraphale wasn’t meant to be angry, of course. The lie sat between them. “Pay me back, then. Got anything with good pictures?”

That made Aziraphale frown. “Can’t you read?”

“’Can’t I read’ – of course I can read! Three thousand years on this planet and you think I’ve forgotten what humans pick up in a year? What kind of animal do you think I am?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, har har har. You’re a bigot, that’s what you are,” he said, though without much heat. He ought to have said he couldn’t, and let Aziraphale teach him. Aziraphale was all about the great benefits of literacy. “I can read Hebrew, obviously, and Egyptian. But the clay-letters… They’re too small. My eyes aren’t great.”

“Oh!” said Aziraphale, whose pity at this overrode the anger he wasn’t supposed to be feeling. “Oh, I see. Of course. Well, I do have an Egyptian story about a man called Sinuhe who- actually, no, you won’t like that. Hmm. I have ‘The Lion Hunt’, ‘The Wise Queen’, ‘The Doomed Prince and the Crocodile’, ‘Anubis and Bata’, and-“

Aziraphale suddenly quirked a smile. Crawly found the tightness around his chest loosened a little. “I have the Tale of the Ship-wrecked Sailor’, but I have a feeling you know about that one already.”

Crawly grinned back, and twirled his fingers. “’The mouth of a man saves him,’” he quoted. “Though of course, I’ve never had a daughter.”

“No reason not,” Aziraphale said. “Though I thought I might have known, if you had…”

“Never had a daughter. Or a son. Or any snakelets of any kind. That I know of. Kidding!” he quickly said, when he saw Aziraphale’s expression. “Just kidding, angel – untwist your knickers. No demonic spawn from me that you have to worry about.”

“I wasn’t _worried_. I just thought that if you had and had never mentioned- but then again, why would you- we’re not friends, so…”

The darkness descended again. “So. Yeah.” Crawly stretched his jaw open. “Toss me the Sailor one, then. Worthwhile knowing what’s being said about me.”

*

He read everything Aziraphale had in Hebrew or Egyptian letters, and then lay on the floor. He rolled. He writhed.

He watched. Aziraphale had spread his tablets around him, like a crow organising its trinkets. He touched them, reverently, and Crawly realised that it wasn’t just the words Aziraphale loved. The angel had a memory for stories and songs and poems that was astounding in its breadth and accuracy. If these were the same songs and stories, he didn’t even need the tablets, and yet here he was, fondling lumps of clay like a miser jewels, or a lover his beloved’s hand. Or other parts.

At length Aziraphale selected one lump which looked identical to all the other lumps, and gave it a secret little smile.

“What is it?” Crawly asked, and Aziraphale immediately gave him a dirty look.

“’He who saw the deep’.”

“What’s it about?”

“Gilgamesh. It’s the usual story.”

“Oh? I thought that was call ‘Surpassing all other kings’?”

“This is Sîn-lēqi-unninni’s new version. Newer, I mean. It’s quite old now.”

“If you’re going to read it, maybe you could read it out loud,” said Crawly.

Aziraphale shifted his shoulders thoughtfully. “Maybe I could.”

“We’ve got a few more days. Four.”

“Four – goodness gracious.” Aziraphale swallowed, and Crawly could see pain on his face. “I suppose I could read out loud, then.”

*

Aziraphale read the whole epic. They wrung every argument they could out of it; whether they could beat Enkidu in a fight, whether they could beat Gilgamesh, no powers but weapons allowed, which weapon to pick? Aziraphale told him about Noah. Crawly told him all about the time before it.

Aziraphale recited as much of the new Greek poem about Troy that he could remember, and Crawly corrected it. They tried to fit the corrections into the metre.

And Aziraphale fretted, and fidgeted, and stared with huge eyes at the locked door. The two lies sat between them, like rotting corpses, and Crawly couldn’t forget them. Without them, and with the wine they’d ignored since Crawly’s slip-up, it might have been the best twelve days in as long as he could remember.

If it hadn’t been so hard on Aziraphale. Crawly had seen it – the looks that darted around the storeroom, the occasional shallow exhalations that flew up into the corners of the ceiling and hung there like bats, or spiders on a thread.

Not at all what he was used to, after the vast spaces of the South Pole, Crawly told himself. If that’s where he’d been. Not to mention stuck in with, well, _Crawly_ , and surrounded by demons at large.

And then they weren’t. They felt the earth tremble, and the air seemed to lighten and brighten around them.

“Are they gone?” Aziraphale asked, and Crawly nodded in confirmation. But neither of them moved. Perhaps Archangels did that too; return to the scene of destruction to see what survivors crawled out of the wreckage…

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, wrenching Crawly from his thoughts.

“For what?”

“For lying. That you believed me. It made it easier.”

“Ah. Well." Crawly lifted a shoulder. "Thanks for not kicking me out. I assume you’d have preferred to be on your own."

Aziraphale shivered. “Perhaps not this time. So. May I ask how you knew?” he bit out, like crunching ice.

“Maybe we should wait until they’re definitely gone.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Do you think I’ll lose my temper?”

“Yeah. And when you do that you have a tendency to blow the roof off in an explosion of holy light or shove my balls up through my oesophagus, so…”

Aziraphale frowned reflexively at the crudity, and then deeper as he searched his memory. “When on _Earth_ did…?”

“When I caught you with those midwives in Pi-Ramesses. And the guy with the khopesh tried to cut your head off?”

“Oh, yes – oh, yes, with my knee.” Aziraphale had relaxed a little; Crawly _knew_ him, and he knew that shifting him from one path of thought to another could be calming. “I had the most appalling mental image of doing it with my _hand_ -“

“Only once, when we were very drunk,” Crawly said. He was only so strong. “Joking, joking! No, it was, yeah, with your midwives. Excellent job there, by the way. Totally passed me by.”

"It was all them, really." Aziraphale was twisting his hands. "What made you think I'd lied to you, Crawly?"

He told him. The most likely reaction Crawly had expected was flight; a second that was possible, if unlikely, was anger. True, emotional rage, rather than the pale, haughty, snippy imitation Aziraphale usually wrapped around himself. Normally Crawly might have hoped it would be that, because it was glorious: Aziraphale forgetting himself, skin pink with fury, blazing with heat and light. But in this particular situation it would be the end of both of them.

What he had not expected was for Aziraphale to listen, silently. The angel hugged his knees, but his face was impassive, as smooth and still as a pearl.

Not a flinch, when Crawly said that he knew about the heads, the wings. Not a glimpse of emotion. The very absence of it, as though Aziraphale’s face was carved in ivory: the stillness was unnatural. Practised.

“Kokabiel,” he said, when Crawly was finished. “I don’t think I ever knew him. I’m sure I would have remembered such a lovely name.” He sighed, and shrugged. “Well, there you go. You know, now.”

“Yeah. So, um. Once I knew that, I didn’t think they’d let you off so lightly.”

“No. They would not. I didn’t Fall for it, but I'd hate to lose the other set of wings.” Aziraphale stared at him. “I suppose they’re in your hands.”

That thought did things to his stomach that Crawly decided to examine at a later date. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“No, not at the moment. As we’re friends right now, reading, sharing wine. But the next time I win and you lose, or you’re feeling resentful and spiteful…”

“I _won’t_ ,” said Crawly. He tried to ignore the hurt blooming under his skin, like a bloodstain.

“I don’t mind.” Aziraphale gave him a ghastly little smile. “I mean, I do, of course, but I’m resigned to it.”

“Resigned to what? Me telling? Or… whatever Heaven will do?”

“Either. On the second, it’s only what I deserve. Have deserved for a thousand years, and God looked at my secrecy and deceit and hypocrisy – your word, yes? – and decided not to let me Fall. Yet. Nor to tell the Archangels… That’s grace, isn’t it? Kindness we don’t deserve.”

Crawly had not expected this. It was like looking at a mask of insanity carved from marble. “It was fucked up.”

“It was what I deserved. Look at all the suffering that’s…”

“Excuse me, give credit where it’s due. I tempted them. And they’d have eaten it eventually, there’s no way they wouldn’t have. And they’ve kept being pricks to each other ever since. How’s that your fault?”

“My lack of vigilance-“

“Aziraphale, when you were off with the penguins, they fucked up so much God decided to start practically from scratch! You can only blame yourself for so long!”

If French had been around, Aziraphale’s expression would have said _au contraire_.

Crawly wanted to throw up his hands in frustration. “You know, Kakob – Kokabiel – he said it was the worst thing he’d seen. And he’s been in Hell for a few centuries now, you know? I won’t lie, life is _shit_ in Hell, but I’ve never seen them cut anyone’s wings off. You could… you know.”

Aziraphale’s expression was stony. “I absolutely do not.”

“You _do_. You could defect.”

Aziraphale looked around, and even in the dim light, Crawly could see a muscle working in his jaw. “I considered it.”

Oh, _that_ was unexpected. “What – seriously? You have?”

“Yes. That night in Waset. I hated being in…” He patted the jar that swung from his hip. “It was… terrifying. I can’t explain.”

Crawly nearly asked why he still carried the bloody thing around with him, but managed to hold his tongue. If he distracted Aziraphale from the topic of defection they’d never get back to it again.

“I was so scared, and I had no idea how long I’d been in it. How long I would be… But you rescued me. Someone… missed me. Noticed my absence, and tried to find me. You don’t _understand_ how… And then you were so kind. Do you remember what you said? That you were a demon, but not-“ The angel tried to clear his throat; a little _hem-hem_. “Not so cruel as to leave me in there. It was so kind. No one had ever been so kind to me, and I thought. Maybe Lucifer had been right. Maybe Heaven wasn’t a place of true morality.”

Then his eyes flicked up, and skewered Crawly. “But then, of course, you did what you did, and I realised that Heaven had been right. It was all a lie. A ploy – a _wile_. And then I realised that they were right about me too. They were right that I was a terrible angel who’d caused humanity so much suffering. I didn’t deserve my rank, or my wings. I deserved everything I received. So, no, Crawly, I have no intention whatsoever of defecting. I can’t trust a single thing you say on the topic, can I?”

His mouth felt dry. "That was different. That was... It's different now."

Aziraphale looked up at the ceiling, and blinked, and smiled. “I was so easy to fool. You were the first person who spoke to me as though I was at all intelligent in… as long as I could remember. You called me an idiot a lot, yes, but you… assumed I could understand your caravan of thought. Your logic. Angels didn’t. I think that’s easier for them to accept. The thought that…” Aziraphale was silent for a moment. “That maybe I was too stupid to Fall. That I must have lacked the understanding required for malice or treason. Maybe they were right. I have no idea why I didn’t Fall.”

“It wasn’t that,” said Crawly. “Didn’t Fall when? For the sword, or for… what we did?”

“Either. Both. I know you must have thought it. Know that I have too.”

“Do you think you should have? Fallen?”

“No, but only because… ‘Should’ is the wrong word. Because that implies God made a mistake, you see? What _I_ think is worthy of the Fall is irrelevant. It’s up to Her.”

“You don’t think we have a responsibility to reason it out? To understand?”

“I think that I was alone with my thoughts for a long time, and they were stronger than I was. More fierce. More furious…” Aziraphale stared at the wall, seeing something invisible to Crawly. Like he used to, when they first knew each other. “I know it sounds like moral cowardice. Believe me, I can hear what I’m saying and I know what it sounds like. But if you’re brought in front of the Judge, and they decide your fate… That’s their responsibility. I don’t have the power, so trying to shoulder that responsibility is meaningless. All it’ll do is crush me.”

The pain was like a stone in the fork of his lungs. “So, I deserved what I got too, did I? I deserved to Fall?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “As I said. I don’t know. What I do know is… Do you know what I kept thinking about? You… that night, you imitated me. _Crawly, oh, Crawly_! How utterly imbecilic I sounded. Like a bleating lamb. And the incongruity of it – that I could forget your nature, while calling you Crawly – it’s so embarrassing. That’s what I mean, when I say that what happened in Waset was my fault. You were only acting according to your nature. I was the one who let myself imagine you could behave otherwise.”

“That I could be kind?” Crawly spat out. “You’re the one who keeps telling me not to be! Make up your mind, angel!”

“I know it sounds hypocritical-“

“Oh, do you? Have you ever thought about _why_ I-“ Crawly wanted to pull his ridiculous beard out by the roots. “In Waset I was _scared_! Scared of Hell, and _furious_ at you. I was so angry. You were so grateful and you looked at me like I was… someone good. I hated you for it. I wanted you to see me as I was. I wanted you to feel as shitty and disgraced as I did-“

“Don’t fear, in that you were quite successful-“

“Shut up! I was angry that I’d _fooled you_ , and I wanted you to _understand_.” Understanding, like a knife through the head. “If you were going to look at me with… with that thing. That feeling. It was unbearable if it wasn’t real. If it wasn’t based on the truth. Nothing matters unless it’s based on truth.”

Aziraphale cocked his head to the side. “So that’s why you said it. Days ago – that’s why you said you knew I’d not told Heaven about us. I’ve been thinking, all this time. Trying to work out why you always have to _ruin everything_. Every time we find some… some solid ground, somewhere to breathe, just for a second, you have to… say something. Do something.”

“Mister ‘I just let God do the heavy mental lifting’ is hardly going to get it,” Crawly snarled. “I might be a _demon_ but I actually give a shit about the truth! I’ll lie, but not to _myself_ , Aziraphale. Not like you. I can’t twist my hands and tell myself that Heaven has the moral high ground while they cut my fucking wings off! You’re still grovelling and excusing and apologising for them!”

“You don’t understand!” Aziraphale shouted. Finally. “I _have_ to!”

“Not here! Not with _me_.”

“Yes, with you! To you! To everyone! To myself, if I don’t want to go completely insane! I deserved it, Crawly. That’s the only way all this makes sense.” The angel squeezed his eyes shut and stood up. “That’s the only way all of this and God can exist together.”

Crawly gaped at him. Aziraphale tightened his belt, and from the look on his face, you could have believed that he was in as much pain as Crawly was. Crawly watched, in disgusted astonishment, as he went to the door, and removed the Shaddai with a trembling wave.

“No wonder you’re worried about going insane. If those are the foundations you’re going to build on.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “How often do we ever really, truly understand anything? We don’t. We never _will_.” He shrugged. “It’s ineffable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tale of Sinuhe is the story of an exile; Aziraphale CAN occasionally be tactful, but only when it comes to literature, not theology. The Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor features a giant snake!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'VE REACHED THE COMMON ERA!!! Well, almost, the chapter begins in about 7-6 BCE. As you know, I usually prefer to write a more Jewish Omens, but if you're writing an Enemies-to-Lovers fic and you get the chance to have Jesus making aggressive eye contact with Aziraphale while saying "Love your enemies - NO, AZIRAPHALE, DON'T LOOK OVER YOUR SHOULDER, YOU KNOW PERFECTLY WELL WHO I'M TALKING TO-"... Well. I had to take it.
> 
> In terms of 'Who is Jesus of Nazareth?' I've tried to go for a middle-of-the road 'Christology'; i.e. Is he a prophet? The Mashiach? A rabbi? God? Ambiguous. I've followed the Gospel of Luke, as that's the one Neil Gaiman used for the Crucifixion scene, and because it is the New Testament book with the most GO-style Gabriel. "Zechariah, do you doubt the message I've given you? I'm the Archangel Fucking Gabriel!" This chapter covers Luke 1-4, if anyone doesn't know the vague outline of the story. It basically goes Annunciation, then Visitation, and then skips ahead to Jesus' Temptations...
> 
> Again, thank you so, so much for all your wonderful, lovely, amazing comments, and again, please forgive the lack of replies. I will see you all on the other side of my viva, next week! <3

It was good to be in Jerusalem again, even if he was there to answer a summons from Gabriel. In the courtyard of the Temple, at least, Aziraphale felt close to Her. As though he could reach out, and be _home_ again… Or in the only place that had ever felt close to it.

He stood on the walls and looked out over the city. It was huge now – a dozen times bigger than it had been when Hezekiah had been surrounded by Sennacherib’s armies. The scene of so much bloodshed, but there was always blood being shed. Aziraphale worried that he was becoming numb to it. King Herod had recently killed his sons Alexander and Aristobulus, strangled on charges of treason. He had already killed his wife, and the rumours about the city were that he had kept her body preserved in honey so that he could still enjoy her even after he’d had her executed. She’d been upset by discovering that the king intended her to be killed when he died, and now he had survived her by more than twenty years.

It wouldn’t be long now, everyone said. The king was approaching his seventieth year, and every year became more tyrannical and paranoid. He was ill, with some foul-smelling, rotting illness that caused him so much pain he had, it was said, attempted self-murder. Afraid that his unpopularity meant that he would be unmourned in death, he was apparently giving out new orders that when he died, various courtiers and priests should also be killed, so that the wails of their families would be interpreted as being for the king instead.

Aziraphale was barely even surprised any more, let alone shocked. After the disaster with Pompey and the Temple he’d been in exile from Judah, and in the last fifty years he had seen so much death he was exhausted. He’d been in Alexandria when Julius Caesar’s army had started setting fires. Forty thousand books had been destroyed…

His summons to Jerusalem had arrived, marked with Gabriel’s static-electricity seal. He had to admit, for all the tyranny and bloodshed, Herod had transformed the city. Not just the Temple, but palaces and gates, towers and courtyards…

There was the chime in the air that never failed to send a chill up his spine. He stood up straight, clasped his hands tightly behind his back, schooled his face, and then turned to the right, to respectfully acknowledge the Archangel Gabriel.

“Shalom,” he said, carefully, lightly. Cheerful but respectful.

“This is looking a bit shabby, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel, and Aziraphale’s heart sank. So it was going to be one of _those_ meetings.

What had he done? What had he forgotten to do?

“It’s well over a thousand years old – and anything would look shabby compared to this!” he said, gesturing to Gabriel’s _toga picta_. “How magnificent.”

“Oh – it is, isn’t it?” Gabriel said, looking down at himself. “I heard the purple was very expensive.”

“Yes – Tyrian. It suits your eyes. Perhaps something a little bluer, like some tekhelet… Like the priests wear.”

“Oh, yes, I saw one of them. Surprised him in the Qodesh haQodeshim, told him he was going to have a son. Little pissant said his wife was too old, so I struck him dumb until he learns some manners. Honestly.”

“Honestly…” Aziraphale’s heart was pounding in his chest. He felt as though he was drifting away from his comfortable, worn-in, _shabby_ body, until he was watching himself at a distance, floating in a cool and deadened space. “Is that why we’re in Jerusalem?”

“For the priest? No, that’s just a prequel. Main event’s yet to come. But another baby!”

Aziraphale couldn’t help a little sincerity creeping into his smile. “Oh, that’s nice.”

“And this time, it’s not going to be some barren old woman either. It’s going to be a virgin.”

“A virgin… having a baby?” Aziraphale felt himself caught in some current of power, some eddy that could pull him under and drown him. “Like Isaiah said…”

“Bingo. I’m here to break the news. Your job’s going to be looking after her until she gives birth. Make sure she doesn’t get stoned or something, that would throw _everything_ off schedule. I can’t even imagine what a nightmare that would be. So!” Gabriel grinned down at him. “Don’t mess it up.”

There it was. Aziraphale’s polite smile vanished, and he nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Not like when you let that Roman get into the Qodesh haQodeshim.”

“It won’t happen again, she’ll be perfectly safe, I’ll look after her.”

“Good. Because you know what I’ll have to do, if all of this goes to shit because of _you_.”

Aziraphale cringed away. He hated himself for it afterwards, always did, the creeping, cringing creature he became in his terror. “I do, I promise. I know very well. It’ll be perfect. Efficiently done, with… with teamwork, and discipline.”

Gabriel relaxed, and his smile became a shade less menacing. “Exactly! That’s exactly what I said. Right, wings out, we’re flying to Nazareth. It’s a good thing _I_ have six, this toga is _heavy_.”

Aziraphale looked at the stones on the ground. His blood roared in his ears like the sea, and he felt light-headed as he remembered the blood, the saw, and the unspeakable shame of…

Gabriel clapped his shoulder, and Aziraphale half-decorporated from pure shock. “Speaking of which, I think you should get rid of the blue. White’s a better color, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale had squeezed his eyes shut; he opened them, wide, and beamed at Gabriel. He had an excuse for this. He’d practiced it. “Blue is the colour of Heaven! I thought, you know. Team colours!”

“Heaven’s blue from _this_ side, buddy,” Gabriel said. His hand was still on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Shows your bias. Kind of betrays your point of view. Heaven’s blue _down here_ , but Upstairs, it’s white, isn’t it? I think white would show that you remember where it is that _you belong_. Hmm?”

Aziraphale nodded helplessly. His hands shook. “White. Yes. White.”

“Fantastic.”

*

Once Gabriel had delivered his message and left, his time with Mary turned out to be one of his very favourite missions.

She reminded him of her namesake Miriam; the same compassion, the same apartness which some interpreted as haughtiness. Her eyes were on other things, and sometimes she smiled to herself as though the Universe had shared a private joke with her.

Well, that wasn’t so far from the truth. The Universe had shared _something_ with her.

She’d cried that first night, when Gabriel left. Aziraphale had awkwardly patted her back, telling her that everything would work out in the end. It was just the shock, he said, and she echoed it back to him.

At dawn she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Right.”

She told her astonished parents that she was going to travel down to the hill-country, to see her cousin Elizabeth. Joachim said that it was madness, the idea of her travelling alone. There were bandits. Rebels.

“I won’t be alone. Aziraphale will walk with me. Go on, Aziraphale, let them see you.” She ordered him about with the easy trust of a born princess, or a beloved child; Aziraphale smiled when he obeyed.

Joachim relented. What choice did he have? “Just like the angel Raphael went with Tobias in disguise,” he said, and when Aziraphale told Mary the true story later she laughed and laughed and laughed.

It was Mary’s mother Anna who thought of the Watchers instead. “I think someone we know should go with you – begging your pardon, sir. Mary, can you wait for a few days for Joseph to return from Jerusalem?”

No. Elizabeth was in Hebron, and to wait for Joseph, she would have to wait for seven days even if Joseph were to leave on time, and then a day or two for him to rest. No. She had to leave immediately.

Anna sighed. “Then I’ll go with you. No one will bother me walking back. We’ll bake bread today, and leave before dawn, then we can get a few miles under us before the midday sun.”

The women swiftly shooed Aziraphale from beside the oven, so he flew five miles north and spent the day in Sepphoris, the administrative capital of Galilee, and a far more cosmopolitan city than Nazareth. He didn’t want to be caught out by Gabriel checking in on Mary and seeing him still in blue.

When he changed into his new white robe (too big, he’d had no time to have it tailored, but he could belt it up), Mary frowned. “I never thought about angels having to _buy clothes_ \- Oh! It’s a very _bright_ white… I thought the blue was lovely. It was the colour of the sky.”

“I thought so too, but…” He didn’t have the heart to explain or to lie. “But Gabriel knows better. What’s suitable. But here, if you like it – the material’s very old, but it’ll stay together for a few years at least! And if you don’t want it you can use it around the house…”

“Oh, no!” Mary said, and held the robe against her. It would suit her. Mary had skin the same colour as Neumiel’s, a silvery brown, and the blue matched the coolness of it. “No, this is beautiful! I’ll wear it when we set out tomorrow!”

“Will you have time to hem it? It’ll be much too big for you.”

Mary laughed. “I will, but with loose stitches. I’ll be getting big soon too!” She held it out admiringly. “Oh. It smells of you.”

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said. He quickly reached out to take it back. “Perhaps if I wash it; a fr- someone once told me that I smell odd. Humans don’t like it.”

“Well, _I_ like it.” Mary held the robe close to her skinny body. “It smells… like the cool part of the night. And a little like wood, like… like sap.”

“I used to wear oil of myrrh. It probably has some caught in the fibres.”

“Like a king. In the days of old.”

Aziraphale laughed awkwardly. “I’m certainly not that. A little prince. That’s my rank. Very low.”

“Good,” said Mary. “Because you’d be very scary, if you were higher. Like Gabriel, who is very holy, but I still can’t believe he spoke to _me_.”

“I must admit… I am a little scared of him as well.”

Mary didn’t say he shouldn’t be, or that angels ought not to be afraid of one another. Instead she reached out and firmly took his hand with the unhesitant certainly he was growing to adore in her. “I was too. I’m very conscious of the honour, but when he said that an angel would walk with me until the baby came, I was worried for a second that it was going to be _him_! Then he called you in and I thought you had such a kind face, and I was so relieved. I couldn’t talk to him like I can talk to you, and tell him how I feel, or ask him about my songs.”

“Then I love my rank as well, if you like it.” He smiled. “You’d not rather have a Cherub guarding you, with a lion’s head and a bull’s head and an eagle’s head, and four great wings?”

“That sounds terrifying! I suppose that’s why they always say, ‘do not be afraid’. I’ve never seen a lion, but I’d much rather have you with me.” Mary snorted. “A lion, talking to me. I can scarcely imagine it. And Imma likes you too. She asked me if I knew what kind of bread angels liked, as though I’d know!”

“They tend not to eat human food. But I do.”

Mary nodded. “Good. We’re bringing the preserved figs too.”

*

Aziraphale remembered this a little over thirty years later. Mary had loved figs, and so did her little boy… Who would be breaking his forty day fast today, and whom Aziraphale planned to meet with a basket of provisions with which to break it. He placed the basket on the market stall and untied his purse from his belt. “Could I have four figs as well, please – actually, do you have six?”

“I do,” said the woman, and Aziraphale rooted among his tablets and scrolls and treasures to suggest he was bringing a coin out rather than manifesting it.

Jericho had flourished. The tavern in which Crawly had comforted him after Sodom was only a memory; countless buildings would have stood on its foundations now. Jericho was no longer a home of the Maryannu; now it was a crossroads with shopping and gardens and wide streets, and a palace with a whole complex of swimming pools for the royal family to visit in the winter. The gardens and orchards filled Jericho with a store of luxuries, like date syrup and persimmon sap. And figs.

There was a sudden lightness at his left hip. A chilling absence.

The child-thief had cut the cord tying his alabaster jar to his left hip in two smooth cuts, and was sprinting before Aziraphale realised what had happened.

He abandoned his basket and ran. “Wait! Stop!”

The child ducked and swerved, prize in his hand; Aziraphale magically shoved people aside as gently as possible. “Please! I’ll pay you – please just-!”

He turned a corner and looked up and down the street. The boy, and the jar, had vanished.

Aziraphale trudged back to the fruit stall, purse clutched in his fist. His head was buzzing, and his heart felt hollow. He didn’t have time to look. Jesus would be waiting, in Heaven knew what state…

It was only a jar. Just a jar in which he’d once been trapped. Probably unhealthy to even hang onto it so far. And if he needed to punish himself, a whitewashed tomb would do just as well. Probably more suitable than the smooth alabaster.

The fruit-seller gave him a look of sympathy and placed a seventh fig in the basket. “I held onto it for you. That last one’s on the house.”

Aziraphale managed to give her a weak smile and a strong blessing.

*

He flew south over the desert, the Salt Sea to his left. He was still fretting over the jar; his purse of treasures he’d very firmly tied and then miracled to his sash.

He clutched the basket in his arms. Forty days without food was a fast that had to be broken carefully. In two sealed jugs he had a mixture he’d read about in a medicine book; whisked egg whites, honey, red wine and water. It made a pleasant, light pink froth, and was good for recovery after starvation, apparently. Then bread and salt-fish, more watered wine, grapes, and the figs.

He spotted them from the air on the top of a ravine, a little north of Ein Gedi. A figure in homespun, lying on the floor, and a figure in black, standing.

The wind teased through the standing figure’s long, copper hair.

_Crawly_ , his heart whispered. Hollow since the theft of his jar, the word fell like a drop of water into a cave. _Crawly._

He landed, clutching the basket. “Is he…?”

“Just sleeping. Passed with flying colours. Heaven’ll be pleased.”

“Ah. Good. Great.” Aziraphale squinted in the strong sunlight. Crawly was looking feminine now, like he had in Rome. “If Heaven’ll be pleased… will you be all right, Crawly?”

“Yeah. I’ll manage. Leave you to it. But, um.” Crawly looked off across the desert. “May have changed it.”

Aziraphale was looking at Jesus, reassuring himself that he was breathing. “Sorry?”

“The name. I’ve changed it. I’m Crowley now.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Oh.”

“The other one… Wasn’t feeling it.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrow. “So after four thousand years…”

“Changed it. People change, don’t they? Even us. Crawly was… slithery, creeping. On the ground. It wasn’t me. Or it was and it’s not anymore, so I’m not Crawly. My name’s Crowley.”

Aziraphale swallowed painfully. _Crawly, oh, Crawly!_ “I’ll try to remember. Crowley… I like it. Does it mean anything?”

“Not sure yet,” Crawly – _Crowley_ – said with a shrug. “It just… means that I’m different.” He looked away again. “I need to go. Debrief. And you need to give him some of that.”

“I will.”

“He spoke about you, you know. His mum loves you. Family friend Aziraphale.” _Crowley_ looked him over. “Where’s the jar?”

“Oh. Someone stole it in Jericho. Just this morning.”

“Might be for the best,” Crowley said softly. “No jar. New name. Meeting without the baggage of the past.”

Crowley’s eyes the same beautiful yellow-gold. Aziraphale’s chest felt tight. “I… I need to look after him.”

“Right.” Crowley slipped his shawl over his hair. “Sure. I’ll probably see you soon. Things afoot.”

Aziraphale nodded helplessly. “It might… I know the circumstances might not be… as we would wish. But I like seeing you. Seeing that you’re all right.”

“You soft bastard.” He was finally smiling. _Crowley_. “I really need to debrief. See you around, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shout-out to [this meta](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19396780?view_adult=true) by ileolai, which articulates the links between Aziraphale and blue so well!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter turned out to be like pinning a live lizard to a butterfly board! It was originally going to be longer, so I've split it into two shorter chapters instead. I feel unhappy with the writing again, so I am doubly grateful for all your comments last chapter - every time I felt like giving up on it I went back and reread them! <3
> 
> I've gone with the Lukan version of the Anointing of Jesus, in keeping with Gaiman's use of Luke for the Crucifixion. 300 denarii was an annual wage for a labourer; going on UK minimum wage, a close idea might thus be £16,000.

Fortified by the angel’s ministrations, Jesus said that he had business in Nazareth on the Sabbath. For Aziraphale, this meant a very welcome few days with Mary, waiting for the congregation in the synagogue.

The years had weathered her face, but her eyes were just as bright as they had been reflecting Gabriel’s full glory when he announced her pregnancy. The skin around them was lined, but they were large and black, and they sparkled like diamonds. The remnants of the blue robe which Aziraphale had gifted her had been braided into a girdle that circled her waist, and she wore a new, indigo-dyed dress and veil.

“Oh,” she said, tugging her son down to be kissed on both cheeks, Jesus’s face squashed between her rough hands, “I was so worried – look how thin you are! Come in, you must be hungry!”

“I’m fine, Imma – Aziraphale brought me a feast,” Jesus said, returning her kiss. “Though I think I can smell…”

“Yes, yes, there’s bread in the oven, and the hens laid four eggs today, that’s perfect. I can fry them in a little oil – too thin! Look at you both! My poor little darling. And you!”

Aziraphale had stood politely to one side, but Mary came to him, and bestowed the same kisses. “You’re so good! Aziraphale, bless you for bringing him home. But both of you boys are far, far too thin! Come inside, come on.”

*

Everything was going _marvellously_. Aziraphale had never seen so many demons on Earth before; they weren’t embodied, like Crowley, so they fastened around poor souls like parasites, using human’s bodies to shield themselves from the material plane.

They didn’t seem to worry Jesus in the slightest. Aziraphale didn’t have to lift a finger; with a word Jesus ordered them out of whatever body they were holding hostage, and with a gesture sent them back down to Hell.

It was the _confidence_ that Aziraphale was most struck by. The pure faith. “Get out of them,” Jesus would say, and the out the demon would come, forced to obey.

“It’s quite incredible,” he said to Jesus once.

“How can it be incredible? Don’t you believe it’s possible?” Jesus was smiling at him, teasingly, but there was an edge in his words.

“Well, of course! The exorcisms aren’t incredible, if we’re going to be literal – it’s you. How sure you are.”

“This, I’m sure about. What I fear is coming… But this was all foretold. _He sent me to proclaim release to captives_.”

The words of the prophet Isaiah made Aziraphale stomach knot. He’d been present when the prophet said them, and had written them down, and even then they’d made him feel anxious and misplaced, out of sync with the cosmos. _Release to captives_. He shifted his shoulders and his wings with them, and was aware of Jesus’s gaze lingering on him.

Release to _all_ captives?

*

In Sepphoris, one of the leading figures of the city, a Pharisee called Simon, invited Jesus and the Twelve to dine. The Pharisees – the Perushim – were much admired by the people for their resistance to Hellenistic culture; they were learned, and devoted to argument and discussion of the Oral Law in addition to the Torah. Aziraphale liked them a great deal. Some of them could be a little stuffy, a little fussy, but he appreciated their pedantry and their intellectualism, and it had _occasionally_ been said that he was somewhat stuffy and fussy himself. It could be a very entertaining night if both Simon and Jesus got into the wine. So Aziraphale attended as a spectator, invisible in the corner of the courtyard as the men all reclined on cushions and ate warm bread, lamb, dates and eggs.

One woman stepped into the masculine gathering. She wasn’t a serving woman; her headdress was bright crimson, sewn with gold disks that tinkled and sparkled. Her sandals were tooled with gold, and her dress of Egyptian linen was scented with something floral and deep.

In her hands, she carried Aziraphale’s alabaster jar.

He gasped. It was the same jar, with the slight chip in the lid where he’d knocked it in Siwa, and the same glyphs: senet, water, vulture, wick, sand. _Mnh_ , beeswax.

His treacherous human heart slammed against his ribcage. The woman was weeping, and in the sudden silence she knelt by Jesus’s feet, and pulled off her veil.

The air was thick, sick. The horror and entranced attention of the men, and the studiousness with which the woman let her tears fall onto Jesus’s feet. The hair with which she wiped them had a copper sheen that made Aziraphale think of Crawly – _Crowley_ – with the tell-tale shininess of henna.

She opened the alabaster jar, and the pungent smell of spikenard filled the courtyard. The woman kissed Jesus’s feet, and poured the nard on them.

Simon exhaled sharply, and Jesus turned to him with a smile. “It’s all right. Imagine a creditor has two debtors; one owes five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. If he cancels both debts, who will love him more?”

“I suppose,” Simon said reluctantly, “the one whose debt was five hundred denarii.”

“Exactly. When shown forgiveness, those who have greatly sinned can show greater love. You asked me to your home to eat, but you didn’t offer me a bowl to wash my feet, or a kiss for my cheek, or oil for my head. And this woman hasn’t stopped kissing not my cheek, but my feet – she has washed my feet with her tears, dried them with her hair, and now she anoints them. I know her sins, and I know that they were many, but they have been forgiven. So she has shown great love. But the one who has had little forgiven, loves little.”

Jesus leant forward from his coach to touch the woman’s naked hair, and whatever spell of silence in the courtyard was broken. _Only God can forgive sins_ , Aziraphale heard from one side, and from Jesus’s own disciples, _yes, speaking of five hundred denarii, that nard was worth three!_ What a waste.

“Leave her alone,” Jesus said, and bent his head to the woman. “Your faith has saved you. Go in peace.”

She kissed his feet, the hem of his robe, and then dared to kiss his hand where it held hers. She fled in a fresh rush of tears, and Aziraphale followed her.

Behind him, whatever Jesus was now saying was being met with shouts of outrage and confusion, some good-natured, some not. The woman was walking out into the street, looking almost concussed, but when she turned around to see who was following her, her face was like the sun.

“Sister,” Aziraphale said. His words stuck in his throat. With that hair, from behind, just for a moment… The words _sin_ and _forgiveness_ and _love_ were tangling around his brain, pulling tight. _Not Crowley_ , he thought. If much was forgiven Crowley, he would be furious, Aziraphale thought. The debt would be an intolerable burden to him. Would he hate whoever forgave him?

The woman raised her eyebrows at his silence with a grin, giddy in her joy. The pang in Aziraphale’s chest deepened.

“Sorry – your jar,” he said.

“The nard is all spent, sir,” she said. “If it were full again, I would only go and anoint him again.”

“No need, no. It was beautifully done. But what they said, about the price – I’m willing to pay it. For the empty jar.”

She stared at him, as though they were two lunatics who met in the street, speaking different languages, but recognising some secret thrumming beneath the skin. “Three hundred denarii for an empty alabastron?”

“I know. I only want the jar. It was taken from me in Jericho, and came to you. Surely… it’s the work of God, that I should see it again.”

The woman held out the jar. “Take it, sir, for today I am born again. The prophet says the Lord has forgiven me.”

Aziraphale took it; it was slippery with nard. He watched the woman walk down the street, swaying as though she was drunk.

He didn’t need psycoscopy to read what had happened. The stolen jar sold on to a merchant in Jericho, filled with spikenard, and thence sold on to the rich people of Sepphoris. Until, months later, it came to be slipping between his shaking hands. He held it tightly to his sternum, not caring that the oil smeared across his front. The pressure was grounding, he told himself. But his hands refused to stop shaking.

“I hoped I’d seen the last of that,” a voice beside him said. Jesus raised an eyebrow, and leant against the wall with Aziraphale. “I think Simon’s regretting the invitation.”

“He’ll be worried about being seen with the lady. People will whisper how she knew his address, his social plans…” He could sympathise a little, but he would suffer far worse than a blow to his reputation if Heaven ever found out about Crawly – _Crowley_. “What you said in there… That one who’s been forgiven much, loves much.”

“What of it?” Jesus asked gently.

“She came in, intending to do that. How did she know her sins were already forgiven?”

“Faith. She believed that they had been – I just confirmed it for her.”

“I wish I had that faith,” Aziraphale said. “I wish I could know… I was punished, for something. But I still don’t know if I’ve been forgiven.”

“To be forgiven you have to forgive. It’s very simple.”

“Forgive who?”

“Your enemy, of course,” Jesus said. “Now, who is your enemy?”

“Well.” Aziraphale bit his lip. “Well – Crowley, I suppose.”

“Hmm.” Jesus looked out across the city. “As you like. Well. Imagine you lent Crowley some money; what does it mean, to forgive the debt?”

“To tell him that he doesn’t have to pay it back.”

“Precisely. It doesn’t mean that you have to be friends afterwards, or that you trust him with another loan in the future. It just means that the loan’s forgotten, whatever he took from it, and that you’re equals again. The slate is wiped clean. You’re the one holding the slate, so it’s up to you. If you do that to an enemy, you can be sure that God will forgive you.”

The debt between God and himself, as lowly and contemptible as he was. A flaming sword. Given away, and so Aziraphale can never give it back… The old, _childish_ resentment, the feeling of _unfairness_ , burnt like acid at the back of his throat. The absence of a sword in one hand, and an alabaster jar in the other.

“Forgiving a debt means you don’t demand repayment, and forgiving a sin is the same thing,” Jesus continued softly. “It means that you don’t demand their pain or humiliation in return for your own. It doesn’t mean you’re not angry with them, or untrusting. Those are feelings. Forgiveness is an action. It’s a decision not to extract payment.”

Aziraphale stared down at the jar. “He never apologised. For the thing he did.”

“Why do you need him to? Do you need his humiliation as payment for your own?”

Aziraphale looked sharply down at Jesus. “What about _justice_?”

“What about it? Justice is about systems; forgiveness is about relationships. They’re related, but they’re not the same thing, Aziraphale! What’s two added to four?”

“Six.”

“And what’s five added to four?”

“Nine.”

“There you go. They share a lot in common, but they’re different questions. If you try to find a single neat answer to both, you’ll have your work cut out for you. Only God can do that, because only God is outside those questions. God can have a single answer to both justice and mercy, but humans have to be a little more nuanced. We have to lean more towards one or the other. Or we ignore both completely, plenty do that.”

He sounded like Crowley, talking like this. Aziraphale blinked hurriedly.

“I think,” Jesus continued, voice still very gentle, “you’ll feel better when you forgive him for whatever it was that happened between you.”

He bit the inside of his cheek. “He… He took my friend from me. My only friend.”

“Blessed are the lonely, the ones rejected and forsaken, for God Himself will be their _goel_.” The _goel_ – your nearest relative, who paid your debts and bought you out of slavery, or who avenged your murder. “That why forgiveness brings you closer to God. When you don’t take revenge for yourself, you’re giving justice over to God; you’re claiming Him as your _goel_. Forgiveness doesn’t mean a lack of justice, it means that God will, in time, give a more perfect justice than you ever could. But to claim your own vengeance is to say that you are your own _goel_. It’s to be completely alone.”

The night was busy below them – soft and quiet above. “I don’t want revenge. On anyone. I just want…”

When he’d been alone and utterly forgotten, was it God who had been his _goel_? Had God enacted some vengeance on Gabriel…? No. Of course not. The _goel_ avenged a _wrong_ deed, but Gabriel had been right. Aziraphale had _needed_ Gabriel to do what he did. Or he would never have accepted his responsibility for all the pain and death and…

He looked down at the jar in his hands. When he had been captive, it had been Crawly who redeemed him… He closed his eyes hopelessly. He and God and Crowley, spinning around in wretched knots of pain and resentment. “It’s too complicated.”

“What is? Tell me.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I barely know what I’m saying at all. What I’m thinking. I’m dreadfully sorry, look at me, chewing your ear off when you should be eating.”

“It’s all right.”

“It’s not. Look, I have to go- just for a while, just for a few weeks. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Jesus looked down at the alabaster jar. “Do you want one of us to look after that for you?”

The shame when he shook his head again felt as hot as steam. As thick as tar. “I need it.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must admit, I will be _so glad_ to move on from the Jesus section! I've followed the Gospel of Luke as my basis, because that's what Neil Gaiman used in the new series material. I've tried to be accurate to the (Good Omens!) canon and to the historical period, and to be sensitive to the religious feelings of anyone reading this! <3 
> 
> The mina (‘talent’ in the Gospel of Matthew’) was equivalent to about 60 shekels or 100 denarii. It was 3 months’ wages for a day labourer, so going off the current British minimum wage - £6,500 odd? The taharah is the purification of the body before burial; I think a lot of Christians miss out who Joseph of Arimathea is, what he's doing when he appears in the Gospels, and why he's named and accorded so much honour. He obviously becomes very important in the Arthurian legends later... Jesus's last words in Luke 23:46 are "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit", which Aziraphale quotes in Hebrew, from Psalm 31.

Several months later, outside Jericho, Jesus healed a blind man. Inside the city there were crowds lined up to see the Galilean rabbi, and once news of the healing spread it began to heave. People hung over the walls of their roofs and pressed together in the wide streets.

Aziraphale’s thoughts were on the palace; Herod Archelaus was dead, but he did not know where Herod Antipatros was. Antipas was the tetrarch of Galilee, and he tended to split his time between his new capital there, Tiberias, and Jerusalem. If Antipas wanted hot springs and swimming pools, Tiberias had them; would he be tempted to visit the old palace complex in Jericho? Did the Romans use Jericho too?

“Stop worrying,” Jesus murmured to him. “I’ll tell you when it’s time. There’ll be no trouble before Jerusalem.” He looked up, and smiled at a man sitting in a sycamore tree. “Zaccheus! Come down; we’ll stay with you, in your house.”

Rather presumptuous, Aziraphale thought. He didn’t recognise the man. But Jesus’s words caused an instant stir, and Aziraphale felt shock and anger ripple through the crowd.

“He’s a sinner,” someone close by said, and Aziraphale took in his expensive clothes, his bulging purse. “He’s a collaborator!”

_Ohhh_ , thought Aziraphale. A _publicanus_. Collecting taxes was a lucrative position for those who were willing to work for the Roman authorities, and even more so if one was corrupt. And in Jericho, with its luxury productions of figs and dates, saps and resins… Aziraphale suspected this Zaccheus would be able to put up Jesus’s whole entourage in some comfort.

He was right, even after Zaccheus had promised to give half of his wealth to the poor, and to repay everyone whom he had defrauded four times over. He’d be selling the scarlet and purple cushions and carpets and couches to cover it, the polished brass lamps and censers…

Aziraphale sat by, invisible, as was his wont. Jesus spent the night in telling stories, and Aziraphale dutifully recorded them.

“Once,” Jesus began, “a nobleman went to a distant country; he was going to receive royal approval, and then return. He summoned ten of his slaves, and he gave each one a mina. He said to them, ‘Do business with these until I come back.’ When he returned, having received royal power, he summoned the slaves back so he could find out how much money they’d made for him. The first came forward and said, ‘Lord, your mina has made ten more minas.’ He said to him, ‘Well done, good slave! Because you have been trustworthy in a very small thing, take charge of ten cities.’ Then the second came, saying, ‘Lord, your mina has made five minas.’ He said to him, ‘And you, rule over five cities.’ Then another came, saying, ‘Lord, here is your mina. I wrapped it up in a piece of cloth,for I was afraid of you, because you’re a harsh man; you take what you didn’t deposit, and reap what you didn’t sow.’ The nobleman said to him, ‘I’ll judge you by your own words, you wicked slave! You knew, did you, that I was a harsh man, taking what I did not deposit and reaping what I did not sow?Why didn’t you at least put in the bank? Then when I returned, I could have collected it with some interest.’”

_You wicked slave_. Aziraphale knew he ought to be recording this, but the words were like seawater being poured up his nose. Impossible to think of anything else: _you wicked slave_.

More than the words, it was the tone of voice. He’d heard that voice before. In the Cube, when God had been screaming his name in fury and contempt and anger, it had sounded just like…

He staggered out of Zaccheus’s house and onto the street. It was a new one, close to the palace and the swimming pools; a stone road, palm trees everywhere. Jericho… one of the few constants in his long existence on Earth. Jericho and Jenin, Byblos and Beirut and Tyre, Rages, Damascus and Aleppo, Erbil and Kirkuk, Jaffa and Acra and… and Waset, of course. One could not forget Waset.

The air was cool, the night starry. He leant against the wall of the house, and only looked down from the sky when he felt the warmth of a human presence beside him.

“The third slave?” asked Jesus.

Aziraphale nodded. “What if…” he began. “Hm. I mean, what if… the third slave. What if he did neither? Neither invested the mina, nor buried it. What if he saw a widow and an orphan, cold and hungry, and he gave the mina to them?”

A smile quirked at Jesus’s lips, and Aziraphale found himself wondering again just how much knowledge God had given him. Prophets were always tricky like that. “As the actions of the slave reflect on the master, I’d say that that slave did the greatest good with the mina he’d been given.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No. It was _wrong_. It doesn’t fit.”

“Whoever shows mercy to the needy is blessed. Whoever gives to the poor lends to the Lord, and will be repaid in full.”

Aziraphale’s stomach clenched and almost heaved up through his throat. Jesus patted his shoulder kindly and stepped back inside.

What he had given to Adam and Eve, God would repay in full.

What had he given?

Violence, and fire.

God would repay him with fire.

In a way, it would be a relief to know for certain, he thought as he tried to bring his breathing under control. To know exactly what punishment was waiting for him. God had already decided fire and death was waiting for him. He just didn’t know _when_ She’d…

He stared blindly at the sky for a long time. Then he turned away and went back inside.

*

Crucifixion was a horrible way to die. Asphyxiation took a long time, if it wasn’t hastened by sepsis or wild animals or shock – three or four days, sometimes. This one wouldn’t. In the note he’d received, expressly forbidding any interference in the death of Jesus of Nazareth, he’d been informed that Jesus would be dead before Shabbat, according to all forecast models. If he didn’t die on his own, the Romans would break his legs, so that the bodies could be down in time. Pontius Pilate had already had three riots over his insensitivity to Jewish Law, most recently when he tried to use funds from the Temple treasury to fund a new aqueduct; he wouldn’t be looking for a fourth.

Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale saw black and a glimmer of copper.

His heart leapt as soon as he saw it, as it always did. And he _loathed_ himself for it; a friend, a man he’d loved, whom he’d known when he was in his mother’s womb – and her standing by, crying, alone even in the crowd – was _dying._ Dying a gasping, painful, ignominious death, and even then, he could feel that same spark of surprised joy when he saw Crowley. That first, unconscious millisecond that made him forget everything else.

Surely that proved it was evil? If he could feel it even here?

“Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?”

It felt like an iron hand wrapped its fingers around Aziraphale’s throat and _squeezed_. “I don’t want to have to discorporate you _here,_ Crowley,” he murmured coldly.

“Your lot put him up there.”

“I don’t make policy decisions. As you well know. If I did, I’d…” He tried to remember what it had been like. “I’d be _goring_ you.”

Sometimes, his thoughts were like pearls in a box. They knocked against the walls of his brain and off each other, and he had never met another soul who could peer inside and see which pearl his eyes were on.

“Or pecking my eyes out.”

Except for Crowley. It should have infuriated him that Crowley was joking about it, but instead it made him feel slightly calmer, and something red tugged at his chest. An odd and unexpected reaction. “Or pecking your eyes out.”

His throat and his head felt raw. He felt so close to tears but his eyes were as dry as stones. He’d wept them all away in Gethsemane the night before, holding Jesus close. He’d been sweating blood. It was on the hem of Aziraphale’s sleeve.

One of the Roman soldiers was laughing at the King of the Jews. Pilate had had the charge written out in Hebrew and Greek as well as Latin, so everyone knew how laughable the situation was. A king with a crown and a throne, and iron sceptres in his hands…

“What happened? What did he say to make everyone so upset? He seemed like a bright young man. Pretty reasonable, even, for a prophet.”

What did he say? That only God was god, and not the Emperor Tiberias? A Galilean with a following going down to Jerusalem at Pesach – even Pontius Pilate could see that that was going to cause trouble. Aziraphale’s head ached. "Be kind to each other."

“Ah. Yeah.” Crowley’s voice was low. “That’ll do it.”

The cross was hoisted up, Jesus’s in the middle of three. The one on the left was swearing at Jesus. “They were saying you were the Mashiach! You lying bastard!”

“Shut up!” the man on his right said. “Don’t make it worse!”

“Make it worse?” The left hand man (his notice just read _Lestes_ in Greek: a bandit) drew a breath which already sounded painful. “How could it be worse?”

“Don’t you fear God at all? We’re on our way to meet Him, and we deserve to be! He doesn’t! Jesus! Think kindly of me, in your kingdom!”

The words were quiet, but the crowd had gone silent to hear the unusual exchange. Jesus was already gasping. “Today you’ll be with me in Paradise.”

Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s sleeve. Not in Heaven. In _Paradise_. In a garden. A walled garden.

Not Heaven. Enclosed. Somewhere enclosed. Eden and the Cube ran together as he tried to keep his eyes on Jesus. White mist curled around the corners of his mind, and it would be such a relief to surrender to it; to float away into it, to make the choice between whiteness and bloody flesh that made his spirit tremble inside his body.

A garden. Not Heaven. Or did Jesus not know, and think that Heaven _was_ a garden?

Crowley’s hand twisted, and Aziraphale realised in horror what he’d done. But before he could pull away, Crowley hooked his little finger around Aziraphale’s, hidden by their closeness and the lengths of their sleeves. 

“I know,” was all Crowley said, and in the warm pressure of that single finger Aziraphale felt bitterness, and exhaustion, and a kind of resigned determination. The last was foreign, he knew, the last was truly Crowley’s and not his own, and he wanted to cling to it. Instead, he allowed himself to feel it and not to chase it, and it was enough to keep him standing and tethered to his body.

The clouds grew thicker, blacker, lower. Yet… it didn’t explain why it was growing so dark so quickly. Aziraphale could see patches of sky between the clouds…

There were shouts of horror. Aziraphale’s hand was suddenly empty, and beside him, Crowley muttered, “Bloody heaven…”

Aziraphale was gathering the energy to take offence when he followed Crowley’s gaze. Something was eating the sun. The moon. The moon sliding in between the Earth and the Sun, in an ineffably perfect conjunction of mathematical improbability and the swirling gravitational forces of Sun and galaxy and… And the sky was dark.

The moon moved away from the sun, which was instantly swallowed up in rolling black clouds. Jesus’s breathing was laborious.

“Aren’t you allowed to hurry it on at least?” Crowley asked quietly.

“No. Strictly forbidden from any… anything. What about you?”

“Ditto. Explicit instructions not to interfere. But Hell wanted a report on this. I’ve been in Rome. I scarpered as soon as the job in the desert was done. Saw the number of exorcisms going on, and unlike some people I’m not a glutton for punishment.”

“Neither am I,” Aziraphale said, because he thought he ought to. It was the kind of thing one ought to deny. His mind refused to parse it, so an automatic denial was all he could muster.

Crowley didn’t dignify it with an answer. “Another hour or two and they’ll. You know. They’ll break his legs.”

“I know.” It would only be minutes then, but God, when it came to that… Maybe they’d let him do something to Mary. Take her away from herself, a little. Give some small measure of numbness. Not that she’d take him up on the offer. “It hurts.”

“Yeah.”

There was the sound of thunder, but any jeers from the crowd or jokes from the soldiers had died away in the eclipse. Now there was just a great silence, pressing down on everyone’s lungs. Giving the slightest sliver of an idea what the three dying men were feeling.

It was so quiet that they could hear what Jesus was saying. He was trying to recite the evening psalm. “For Your name’s sake, lead me… guide me…”

“Very soon now,” Crowley said. “Can feel it.”

Aziraphale nodded dumbly. Jesus was struggling on the cross, trying to rise up against the nails through his ankles. “Father, into your hands-“

His voice broke away as he sagged down; the rest of his breath wheezed out of his body before he could complete the sentence.

“ _Beyadeka apqid ruchi_ ,” Aziraphale whispered for him.

“It was fast.”

“Thank Heaven for small mercies,” Aziraphale said, with icy bitterness. “We’ll take him down.”

“You look like you could use a drink.”

“I could,” Aziraphale admitted, then shook his head. “I have to stay. I have to look after Mary. But… next time. Next time I see you.”

“Yeah.”

“Aziraphale.” An older woman approached them. She had a lined face, and a veil that had been dyed with madder. “I’m going to go and buy the aloes and myrrh; if I go now, I can buy some before Shabbat. Then we can go and prepare the body when it’s over. Your jar, can I take it for the ointment?"

“Of course- of course,” Aziraphale said without a second’s hesitation; he undid the knot attaching the alabaster jar to his hip and handed it over. “Yes – you have money, Salome?”

“Yes. Joseph has gone to ask the governor for the body; he said he knows a grave, and he’ll perform the _taharah_.”

“Isn’t he a priest?”

“No, but his son-in-law is. He’s a merchant, I think? He’s on the council.”

“Then he and I can take the body down,” Aziraphale offered. “It’ll be tight, but I think we can do it before sunset. Ask Mary – Magdalene – ask anyone who’s here and can do something to make sure there’s water fetched.”

“Bless you,” said Salome, and carried the jar away.

“Gone again,” Crowley said quietly. “I noticed you’d got It back.”

“It was being used for perfume. Better than… fish guts.”

“Yeah.” The air was punctuated by a loud crack, and a scream. Crack. Scream.

Aziraphale opened his eyes; he didn’t realise he’d closed them. It just meant that he saw the second bandit’s legs being broken with ghastly efficiency by one of the soldiers.

“Will you want it back? When they’ve embalmed him?”

“I don’t know,” said Aziraphale. “It’s… my punishment. I go into it, when… when I need to. When I need to repent. To let Heaven know I’m… penitent. But I’m so tired, Crowley.”

“It’s a punishment for you?” Crowley’s voice had cracked. “The memory of it?”

Aziraphale blinked, just as one of the soldier prodded Jesus’s corpse with a spear, then gave it a stab up under the ribs to make sure he was dead. “What?”

“You punish yourself with the memory of me?”

Aziraphale heard the pearls rattle, and picked one out. “No. No, of course not – I mean, not _of course_ , but… It wasn’t that night. When you rescued me. It was before. It was the… being trapped. That’s what hurts.”

“Spending a few days in that jar… was worse?” Crowley asked. “Than what I did?”

“Yes.” Fat raindrops were beginning to fall, and Aziraphale suddenly understood with a physical jolt what Jesus had been trying to tell him about forgiveness. When was the last time he’d wanted Crowley to be punished, to be in pain or humiliated? “I forgave you more than a thousand years ago for it,” he said with soft wonder. “Before Troy. I think… Even Egypt, and the Plagues. I didn’t realise I’d forgiven you for it. I’d have said it, if I’d known. I promise.”

The look Crowley was giving him was so strange. Aziraphale thought that he’d got really rather good at parsing expressions over the millennia, but whether because of the situation or his exhaustion this one was completely beyond him.

It was easier, in a horrible way, to look back at the corpses on the crosses.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your comments, you're always so kind! <333 Please forgive my delays in answering them, mental state is a bit fragile at the moment, and I have to do my thesis corrections - but it was so nice to write a lighter chapter! Salutaria!

Crowley was pissed off. He was pissed off, fed up, nauseated, and still felt vaguely filthy even after four hours in a caldarium. He’d spent two hours in the pool, and then had a slave go over him twice with a strigil.

Every time he remembered what he’d seen in the Emperor’s room, he found himself wishing the strigil had been a knife. A sharp one.

“Whatever’s drinkable,” he said to the woman in the taberna, and paid two sesterces for a jug of brown wine.

He _ought_ to have been pleased. Hell would be. Hell would be ever so impressed by his description of all that rape and incest.

“Crowley?”

A voice more cleansing than oil, more painful than a strigil. Aziraphale was wearing a toga so white it looked like he was running for office, but the colour wasn’t due to chalk and urine. It was just… Aziraphale, shining through it.

Fucking heaven, his forearms were bare. Crowley turned back immediately, hiding his face behind his clay cup. It was _cold_ in Rome in early January – it was only the bloody _nones_ – and after involuntarily focusing his eyes to see temperature instead of colour he could see that Aziraphale’s skin was cold. Chilled skin, glittering in the scarce sunlight with golden hairs, surprisingly defined muscles, wrists that should not have been so delicate in comparison. _Fuck_.

“I, um,” the angel said behind him, and Crowley realised several seconds too late that he’d just turned away.

He pretended he’d done it deliberately. “You sitting down or what?”

“Oh, right,” said Aziraphale, with one of his disgusting smiles. He gathered up his toga and slid onto the stool beside Crowley’s. “I thought, last time we saw each other you said that, maybe we could… That, obviously, was..."

“Wouldn’t have been a good drink,” Crowley quickly agreed. “Another cup here?”

“Thank you. Salutaria…”

Crowley chinked his cup against Aziraphale’s. “Not really in much of a drinking mood myself today, but I did say, so…”

“Oh?” Aziraphale had the cheek to sound concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Urgh. Rome. Caligula.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said. “Um – forgive me if I’m wrong, but wouldn’t the Emperor’s… _goings-on_ be a bit of a feather in your wing?”

“They would be if- I mean, yeah, I’ll take credit for them, so they will be. But… euch. You know, a bit of malice and cruelty, it’s like strong liquor. Or garum. A little goes a long way. Seeing one of his orgies in action is like a caldarium full of garum.”

“Oh, Lord,” Aziraphale, and wrinkled his pointy little nose. “That does sound… unpleasant.”

“Yeah.” Crowley drank another mouthful of wine. Despite himself, the nausea was leaving him – even with the idea of a sauna room with a pool-full of fish sauce. Maybe it was the sight of Aziraphale, prim and unsure, sipping from his cup with visible anxiety and determination. You couldn’t ask for a better palate cleanser than something so pure and intoxicating. “What about you, what are you in Rome for?”

“Imperial family for me as well; Heaven’s pinning its hopes on Nero. I was thinking I might try to interest him in music, instead of those _horrible_ circus games.”

“ _Nero_? Agrippina’s boy?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, he’s not here,” said Crowley. “Last I heard he was sent down to Calabria.”

“Oh, bother.” Aziraphale sighed, and sipped his wine. “I was hoping to find a good tutor here for him. I have a fellow from Corduba in mind - Lucius Annaeus Seneca, do you know him?”

“Is he the one that was always hanging around Julia Livilla?” Another of Caligula’s poor prostituted sisters.

“The very same, before she was exiled. I thought he would make a perfect tutor for oratory and literature, but Caligula ordered him to kill himself! Jealousy, apparently. So I made him ill.”

Crowley found himself beginning to smile despite himself. “Caligula?”

“No, Seneca!” Aziraphale grinned. “Something harmless but nasty-looking. So Seneca told the Emperor that there was no point in his killing himself, he’ll be dead soon anyway. Excellent way of keeping a low profile.”

“It’s a good idea. Caligula’s nothing if not capricious.”

“That’s what I thought. If he survives, I think he’d make a good tutor for young Nero.”

“I won’t say wish you good luck, but…” said Crowley, and then remembered Aziraphale saying the same thing to him. He’d been tied to a caravan going down the Canaanite coast, going to Waset with Joseph, son of Jacob; Crowley had been on his way to Tyre. Only a few weeks later…

He hoped Aziraphale hadn’t been reminded of it either, but the angel was looking down at the bar, face pink despite the chill. “No. Quite. Um.”

“Any other plans? While you’re in Rome?”

Aziraphale smiled gratefully. “I’m going to dinner at Petronius’s tonight; he’s been going on and on about his new oyster beds on Lake Lucrinus.”

“Hmm.” Crowley sipped the wine while he searched his memory. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten an oyster.”

Aziraphale’s lit up as though Crowley had just given him a pearl – or, given Aziraphale’s personal predilections, the Iliad on the best Pergamon parchment or something. “Oh, you _must_! I insist, you have to try them. … why don’t you come? Petronius said that any friend I brought would always be welcome, and I’ve never… well. Please.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Crowley said, as though he was hugely put out by the inconvenience. “If you’re so bloody impressed by oysters.”

Aziraphale relaxed into a bright grin, and Crowley couldn’t help but wonder at the change that had come over him since the last time they saw each other. He’d suggested that Crowley might be a friend… And had forgiven him, he said. Was that the cause of his apparent happiness?

Or just the thought of oysters for dinner?

*

“Apici! You’ve _finally_ deigned to grace my humble hovel,” said Petronius, stepping back from the kiss of greeting and raking his eyes up and down Crowley. “And who is _this_?”

“This is my friend,” Aziraphale said, and froze.

Crowley rescued him. Being introduced as Aziraphale’s friend gave him an odd slippery feeling, but it was by no means unpleasant. “Sixtus Antonius Croceus. What a pleasure. _Apicius_ has told me so much about you.”

Aziraphale was a charming pink. Roman men referred to each other by cognomens these days; back in the days of Scipio and his lot it would have been considered insultingly informal. But Apicius was a very suitable cognomen: beloved by bees, delicate, sweet. Or someone with refined culinary tastes. “We were talking earlier, and Croceus told me that he’d never eaten an oyster-“

“What? No!” Petronius was suitably aghast. “Never? Oh, then my dear friend, he certainly can’t eat here!”

Aziraphale’s face fell, and Crowley could _smell_ it. Humiliation, mortification – and shame. He hadn’t been able to smell Aziraphale so well in such a long time… “Oh- oh, I’m so dreadfully, dreadfully sorry – I thought you’d said that I- but of course, no invitation, not even a message or-“

“Don’t be so foolish!” Petronius took their hands. “I only mean that once your wonderful friend has tasted _my_ oysters he’ll be spoilt forever. None will ever compare. The first and last time you shall eat oysters, my friend, at least until you visit me again. Those crystals you’re wearing are just _marvellous_ – what a clever frame – are they for the circus?”

*

Crowley wasn’t impressed by the oysters. Petronius had them brought up on silver platters filled with ice kept in a special underground ice cellar, and had handed the shucking knife to Aziraphale (“Crocee, just watch this, your friend is an absolute _master_ with a knife…”). They looked like something a pulmonary plague-victim had sneezed into a shell.

Petronius and Aziraphale made Crowley take the middle couch (for high status guests; the high couch being, obviously, for middle-status guests) and eat the first oyster. It was raw and slippery and delicately disgusting in a seafoody way. Then another with sauce, carried out in a cruet of Alexandrian glass.

“It’s my own recipe,” Petronius said proudly from the host’s couch. “Lovage, pepper, garum, egg yolk, olive oil, wine, and the slightest bit of honey, all whisked until it’s perfectly smooth.”

The sauce only slightly helped the oyster, but Petronius was as generous with his Falernian wine as he was with his molluscs, and Crowley began to enjoy himself immensely. Aziraphale swallowed oyster after oyster with an expression of absolute bliss. Crowley watched the muscles in the angel’s bare throat work, and heavy warmth ran down his spine to pool with building pressure behind his hips. Aziraphale’s lips were pink and glistening with the juice of the oysters, and Crowley knew now what they would taste like – something more delicate than salt, silky and unique.

Aziraphale and Petronius compared notes after each one, with sauce and without, with a little wine only, or a little oil. They talked about beds and baths and the water temperature at Lake Lucrinus, and the effects of salt on the taste, the best wine to be paired with it. Aziraphale was a proponent of adding bread just a little toasted and hot from the oven; Petronius called him a vulgar barbarian and said that only undiluted wine was appropriate.

“I agree with Apicius,” Crowley said. “You need to set off the taste of the oysters with something more earthy. Toasting adds fire, and then a little perfume for the air…”

“Apicius! Why have you never brought your friend before – far, far more intelligent than most men in Rome. Stoics, half of them. Dreadfully dull. But such fine aesthetic sense, and you have never eaten an oyster?”

“In my line of work oysters are for pearls; I’m a merchant,” Crowley said.

“Oho – that must be why you’re friends with Apicius! He’s a pearl himself, is he not?”

Petronius’s eyes were alight, and Crowley raised an eyebrow. What did the bastard know? “His hair’s the right colour, but other than that he’s more of a pebble.”

Aziraphale wet his fingers in the Falernian and flicked his fingers at Crowley. He looked _happy_ ; a little tipsy, a little pink-faced, but happy. And he was _licking the wine off his fucking fingers,_ like a _monster_.

Petronius was staring smugly at him over the rim of his cup.

They’d lurched way beyond tipsy and were solidly pissed when two more guests arrived, both wearing senatorial togas. Introductions were made, names were given and instantly forgotten, and Crowley blinked up at the two men looking down expectantly at him.

“Here, I’ll shift down, and you can sit here!” Aziraphale said, eyes comically wide and blatantly pointing at his own couch; he was such a slut for complicated dining etiquette that he could be comatose and would still insist on the correct seating plan, Crowley thought.

Aziraphale moved down the high couch, leaving the more honourable seat against the arm for Crowley. Which meant that when Crowley lay down, Aziraphale’s head was to the right, and… And if he moved, just a little, then Aziraphale’s shoulder was resting against his own.

Petronius was bringing the senators up to date on all the important oyster news, and then they were replying with even more boring dross from the Senate floor. Crowley was entranced by the back of Aziraphale’s neck – the slight dampness to the skin, the white curls darkened to ivory…

Aziraphale’s tunic slipped down when he reached out to top up their wine, and Crowley saw a perfectly straight line of silver-pink. And he remembered.

*

“Where are we going?” Crowley asked as they tried to stagger out of Petronius’ vast villa. They carried with them invitations to come back any time, _any time_ , and quite possibly an invitation to partake of more of oysters and wine on the next occasion. 

“Suburra,” Aziraphale slurred.

Crowley’s eyebrows disappeared up beneath his silver _corona_. “What could interest an angel in the Suburra?”

“Hush,” Aziraphale said, and shoved him gently. “Insula. Got a room in an insula. And taberna on the bottom. Can buy more wine.”

“Suburra wine?”

Aziraphale wiggled his fingers in a way that made Crowley’s stomach dip. “Won’t be by the time we drink it!”

Fair enough. They staggered north, into the shadowy valley that formed the topology for one of Rome’s dodgiest areas. No Falernian on offer here, but they could get the booze the Jews called _shekar._

They perched together on the steps of the crossroads fountain. The night was freezing, and all the noises of the Suburra were coming from the insulae or the crossroads collegium building. Being in the Suburra, the crowd inside was rough, and Crowley imagined for a second how much fun a fist-fight would be. “Do they give you any trouble?”

“Never for long,” Aziraphale said with a heart-stopping attempt at a roguish smile. “I thought about seeing what I could do about their protection racket, but… well.” He drank from the jug and wiped the lip, politely and unnecessarily, before he passed it to Crowley.

“I was going to say don’t get discorporated, but then I remember your special little talent in that area. Could be a good option for your local project.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Ah. No. No local projects now.”

“You always have a little personal project going on. Tarts into tailors, sluts into seamstresses…” He thought for a moment. “Whores into weavers! Redeeming slaves, teaching snot-nosed irritations about the importance of literacy and hygiene...”

“No.” Aziraphale’s voice was very small. He took the jug back from Crowley. “Nothing like that.”

“What, seriously?” Crowley felt it again. The nasty dip in the stomach that inevitably happened in every proper conversation with Aziraphale. “That’s not like you…”

“Rather the point, dear boy. That is, in fact, precisely the point.” The angel stared down at the road. “I watched my friend die, painfully, and I did nothing. And Heaven told me that I’d done the right thing. The Good Thing. All according to the Great Plan. _Well done, Aziraphale – managed to resist the temptation to bumble in and ruin something you didn’t understand._ That’s what Gabriel said. Always bumbling, stumbling, fumbling. I kept trying to help people, and what have I done?”

The dread turned into anger. And exasperation. “You’ve helped a lot of people. Hundreds. Thousands! Made their miserable little lives a bit more bearable-“

“Really? You think so? Fires burning down libraries – swords cutting down men, women, children-“

Crowley groaned and snatched the jug back. “Angel, not the _fucking sword again_ -“

“Of course it’s the sword again! That’s exactly- that’s what triggered everything! All the awful, wretched… I should have been locked away right from the start, so I never had a chance to inflict my stupid, short-sighted, idiotic ideas of what’s helpful on an innocent world.”

Crowley stopped drinking. The words tumbled around his head like the pebbles that heralded a landslide. “Locked away?”

“Should be.” Aziraphale sighed, and held out his hand for the jug.

Crowley held it back. “Shouldn’t.”

“Give me the wine, Crowley.”

“You _shouldn’t_! What do you even _mean_?”

“I mean I want the wine I paid for! Give me the-“

Aziraphale missed, and pitched beyond Crowley into the water trough. Crowley instinctively reach out to catch him and tumbled backwards instead.

The cold was like the razor-blade strigil Crowley had idly dreamt about that afternoon. He gasped, and the water poured down his throat. He could feel his blood slowing, his muscles becoming hard and stiff, and _this_ was going to be a real fucker to explain to the corporation guys Downstairs…

Then strong arms were pulling him up, stiff and water-logged as he was. He heard “ _Ecastor_!” which was hilarious, because only women said that – Aziraphale had been a woman in Rome a hundred years ago…

Then he felt it pouring through his body like sweet wine, like cool heat, settling on his skin like warm snow. His limbs melted into puddles of pure relaxation, and the night air felt merely pleasantly chilly on his hot skin.

Aziraphale knelt in front of him, toga sodden, frost glittering in his white hair. There were raucous shouts of laughter and jeers from the collegium, and the smell of soap and water and apple blossom overwhelmed the usual stink of Roman streets.

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley wanted to laugh.

“No need. You bloody lush.”

“That was entirely my fault-“

“Yes, it was,” Crowley said, and really laughed then at the expression of dawning shock on Aziraphale’s face.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you said.”

“Aren’t you angry?”

“Nah,” Crowley said, with complete sincerity. “Might have been if you’d let me die, but… Nah. Stupid angel.”

“Well, I couldn’t do _that_ …”

“Can you imagine if I’d had to explain that one?” Crowley laughed again; the after-effect of Aziraphale’s healing miracle and the _concern_ and _affection_ he could feeling overflowing from Aziraphale’s palms on his forearms made him feel euphoric. “ _And how did the Prinicipality Aziraphale discorporate you this time, Crowley_?”

“Can you imagine what _I’d_ have had to write?” Aziraphale said, with the beginnings of an incredulous smile, and Crowley howled.

“ _Dear Gabriel, tip-top, spiffing news, discorporated the loathsome fiend Crowley by drunkenly falling into a fountain_ -”

“I don’t sound like that.”

“You _do_. And you spilt the wine, you daft bastard.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so, SO much for your patience and your comments! My brain has been turned to mist and ash by thesis corrections, and some wretched job rejections, and then various mental illness joys, but I hope to pick up speed again now. I had a choice of making this one long chapter or two shorter ones, so I decided to go for the one which let me publish something sooner! <333
> 
> We've reached 541-542 CE! "Crowley and Aziraphale cause the Nika Riots" is a headcanon to which I am very firmly wedded. XD Also, my favourite comes around again - IT'S INCANTATION BOWL TIME!

Life on Earth sometimes felt like being on a raft in a stormy sea, pitching up and down and hoping you’d judged the currents correctly.

Aššūrāyu had become Assyria, and, under the Sassanids, Assyria had become Asōristān. Once the spiritual capital of Sumeria, the fortunes of Nippur had fallen dramatically: now, there was only a small collection of mud houses, gathered around the ruins of the old ziggurat. What it did have, however, was a higher than usual concentration of Jews, and wherever Jews settled, there was a slightly higher than usual chance of running into a certain angel.

Crowley wasn’t going to _look_ for Aziraphale. That would be pathetic. But if you had to stop for a drink on the journey from Ctesiphon back to Constantinople, well, one might as well spend the night at an old haunt. Reminisce. Keep an eye out for a pale idiot bothering the locals.

It hadn’t been until the morning after the oyster dinner _chez_ Petronius that Crowley realised that he hadn’t seen Aziraphale’s alabaster jar. He meant to ask whether he’d ever got it back after lending it to Salome, but by the time he’d thought of it Aziraphale was already on the way to Calabria in search of Nero.

He hadn’t seen Aziraphale for close to a century after their last meeting. He assumed the angel was doing whatever he could to ameliorate the situation in Palestine, and kept well clear. Crowley had been in Rome for the triumphal procession of treasures captured from the Temple, and he felt a strange ghost of grief in his chest. Obviously _he_ didn’t give a shit about the Temple. All good for a laugh. Hell would like the report. But knowing how devastated Aziraphale would be inconveniently twisted something in him.

It was in Rome that he next saw Aziraphale. Apparently, he was acting as a paedagogus to Marcus Aurelius’ son, teaching the snot-nosed irritation about the importance of literacy and hygiene, and then spending his free time teaching the same to plebian snot-nosed irritations too. A new little side project. Aziraphale couldn’t keep away from them for too long; he just _could not resist_ the temptation to be kind and do some nauseating _good deeds_ , even if he had to do it furtively, secretly. Always bumbling, stumbling, fumbling, as he’d said when they’d last spoken.

Aziraphale’s articulation of the situation in Rome a century before had made some things make sense. The odd period of a decade or four when Aziraphale had seemed to throw himself into a kind of hedonistic apathy. Long enough for the memories of how terribly wrong things could go to fade, and the itch to try again to grow.

They began to run into each other more and more. Every century, then every other decade. They met in Constantinople, when Crowley was racing for the Greens, and they’d gone for a drink in the wrong drinking hole with Aziraphale wearing his Blues himation, and then the next thing they knew thirty thousand people were dead and half of the city had been burnt down.

Five years later Aziraphale had his revenge in the arse-backwards shithole of Wessex, clanging around in rusting armour. They’d jousted, mostly for old times’ sake, and Aziraphale had won by virtue of actually being able to ride a horse.

And now, another five years later, and Crowley was on his way back to Europe after some fun meddling with the Sassanids. He had been all right with Khosrow killing all his brothers and their families, until it had come to Jamasp’s little boy Kavadh. Somehow the child had managed to escape into Byzantine territory. A total mystery. Though Aziraphale would be happy, when he told him.

And there he was. The idiot himself.

Crowley twisted to his feet and gave a shout. “Oi! Angel!”

Aziraphale was wearing dark clothes and a turban, carrying a leather scroll-bucket over his shoulder. Crowley had the pleasure of seeing his face light up as he recognised Crowley, and then the unexpected additional delight of Aziraphale picking up the hem of his robe to jog up the street.

“Crowley! What a surprise – what on Earth are you doing here?” Aziraphale’s face fell. “Crowley, what are you doing here?”

“Just passing through,” Crowley said, making a vaguely soothing gesture with his hands. “Just come from a mission in Ctesiphon, new one in Constantinople, got to drink somewhere. What about _you_ – up to anything I should know about?”

“No, no – personal business, sort of,” Aziraphale said, looking relieved. He reshouldered his scroll-bucket. “I’ve been at a thing in Pumbedita, and a friend of mine there asked me to look in on his daughter and her new baby, so I said I’d pop in.”

“Pumbedita? That’s two days away. Must be a good friend,” Crowley said. Not that he was jealous.

“No, not at all – not a friend, if I’m being honest, we were just working on one of the margins together.”

“What margins were you working on in Pumbedita anyway?”

“I was at a, hm. An editing workshop. Legal and theological rulings - you'd enjoy it, actually.”

Crowley stared at him flatly. “An editing workshop.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale was beginning to smile again. “It’s really ever so much fun. I haven’t been back since Rav Ashi died and now everything’s moved up to Pumbedita. Oh, it's _wonderful_ , Crowley – just weeks of arguing about _commentary_ and _structure_ and legal interpretation…”

Crowley inwardly congratulated himself on his perception.

“You might want to tell them to shift. I’ve spent the last few years in Ctesiphon, and the new governor they’re sending over does _not_ like Jews.”

“Ctesiphon – oh! So _you’re_ the reason Khosrow broke the Treaty of Eternal Peace!”

Crowley smiled modestly. “He was always going to.”

“You know how hard I worked on that treaty! And he sacked Antioch!”

“So? Antioch’s a shithole.”

“It is now!” Aziraphale spluttered. “That was half a million solidi well spent!”

“Calm down, it’s only money.” And only 440,000 solidi had arrived in Ctesiphon. Oh, he loved humans sometimes. “And Antioch. … and Lazica. Let me buy the drinks tonight.”

“Half a million solidi’s worth?”

“And your little editing workshop in Pumbedita.” Crowley smiled temptingly. “Go on. I know you’d love to drink with someone who can keep up with you.”

“I would – do you know anyone?” Aziraphale said, and his lips quirked as Crowley laughed. “Anywhere decent?”

“There’s one just up the road – you see that one with the red hanging out the front? Persian wine, and they do stuffed vine leaves.”

“Pistachios?”

“Yeah, sure,” Crowley said; if the tavern didn’t serve them, they soon would.

“Wonderful – all right, can you give me a few hours? I don’t want to be rude and rush in and out.”

“No, you’ll have to go through the whole hospitality palava. Sunset?”

“Sunset would be ideal!” Aziraphale’s smile was noonday-bright, and he even turned to wave over his shoulder as he walked down the street.

Crowley waved back. He waited for the angel to disappear down a side alley, and leant against a mud-brick wall. He had several hours to fill, and he knew how he would prefer to fill them.

Sometimes when he was with Aziraphale, a wicked little impulse took over him. He wanted to remind the angel who he was. What he was. Wanted the angel to have to acknowledge that he was having drinks with a demon, a demon who did his job and did it well and whom Aziraphale wanted to have a drink with anyway. Nothing too sordid or cruel, of course, but enough to evince that delightful little moue. Maybe even a tut.

A girl walked past him – eyes down, hem below the ankles, sleeves below the wrists, veil perfectly modest. And from her, Crowley scented _want_ ; a boy, a _boyfriend_ , asking and suggesting and her _wanting_ in return.

Perfect, he thought, and followed her.

*

Aziraphale was _happy_. He had been well-fed by Naomi and her husband, and had surprised her by dandying the baby boy on his knee. He very much enjoyed playing with children, at least for a few hours. Or until they started crying.

When he had been holding the boy he had felt a strange _absence_ in the boy’s chest, a gap in which death was nestled, and he healed the hole in the baby’s heart without anyone ever having known he’d had it.

And so, alight with the particular warm joy he felt after a good deed, he went to the tavern and waited for Crowley to arrive. He said no to a glass of wine, yes to a bowl of pistachios, and then sat back against his cushion and watched the sunset turn the world golden-pink.

Crowley didn’t come.

The shadows lengthened. The sky darkened. Aziraphale felt his excitement turn to annoyance, and then to anger. Darkness fell. Stars began to twinkle.

The anger turned to embarrassment. Then to shame. The idea that he’d waited for _hours_ , for a _demon…_ Crowley was probably laughing at him from across the street somewhere. Or had simply left Nippur, not even caring enough to watch and mock…

No. _No_ , Aziraphale thought, and sat up straight. He knuckled his temple, then his eyes. Did he really believe that of Crowley? Where did those thoughts come from: evidence, or fear?

Crowley had been unkind in the past, but now, whenever they met… Crowley liked to _tease_ , certainly, he liked to make bets and cheat at board games, but when was the last time Crowley had been outright _cruel_ to him?

Instead, he remembered Crowley’s finger linking around his, while Jesus suffocated in front of them.

Nippur wasn’t big. He could search the whole place in an hour, and then at least he’d know for sure. He could _sense_ Crowley, now – not a lingering scent, or a near-silent hum, but something like that. More like a sudden quickening in his heart, or the heat which a fire threw out.

It didn’t take an hour. It didn’t take half of one. Aziraphale turned a corner, saw the well-appointed house, and felt Crowley’s _rage_ and _fear_ and frantic panic like a whiplash across his brain. He knocked on the door, was shown inside, and somehow managed to introduce himself as Azariah, who had been working on the Gemara in Pumbedita.

It turned out that the rabbi, whose name was Shmuel, was a very prolific bowl-writer for the town. These were simple clay bowls placed under thresholds and within window settings; any demon who tried to enter the house would be pulled into the space made by the upturned bowl, and bound there, rendered harmless by the spells written in a swirl around the inside of the bowl.

“The thing is,” Aziraphale said, trying his best to look friendly and trustworthy, “the thing is, um, I wonder if you’d let me, um, release the demon that one of your bowls has caught?”

The rabbi stared at him. Behind him, a woman and two girls peaked around the curtain that hid the women’s room. “Excuse me?”

“He’s really just, the most, he’s a harmless little demon, he really is, and-“

“He’s a _demon_ ,” said Shmuel.

“The thing is, well, there are _demons_ ,” Aziraphale said, and raised his hands like claws, “and, just, um, people who happen to be demons. And the demon that you’ve caught really is actually very pleasant. For a demon. Very helpful, kind fellow. Just a, heh, a bit of a trickster!”

“I don’t understand,” said Shmuel. “He’s still a demon! Why are you arguing for a demon? What does it matter to you if he’s trapped here?”

Aziraphale decided to change tack. “I bound him to me. I’m his _goel_.” He rode over whatever the rabbi was about to say in horrified objection to this. “And… I’m sure your bowls are excellent. But what if there were an earthquake, and the bowl were to be cracked? What if you pass this house on to your children, and they forget about the bowl and take the stone of the threshold up? You won't be there by then to protect them from a very, _very_ wrathful demon. At the moment he’ll be all right, all water under the bridge, but after decades in your wonderful bowl, well… But if I take him away from Nippur tonight, you'll all be safe from him forever.”

“Good points,” Shmuel said. “Good points. You swear that he'll be harmless? That he won't seek vengeance, or harm anyone in Nippur?”

“I swear.”

“In B’midbar, it is said that a man who swears by the Lord binds his own soul to do as he has said.”

“I do,” Aziraphale said, without thinking. Without hesitation. “He will harm no one in this town. We will leave at first light. I swear to the Lord.”


	28. Chapter 28

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Aziraphale wished them back inside, swallowed down and locked beneath his heart. What was he doing?

No, what had he _done_?

Angels did not have souls. They _were_ souls. What happened to an angel who put up his being as a guarantee? Did he Fall? Or did he die?

His corporation had begun to sweat. He didn’t even notice Rav Shmuel’s look of astonishment as Aziraphale leant down at the threshold stone and pried it out on his own.

He scrabbled at the packed earth with shaking hands. The bowl was only an inch down.

Crowley could have been buried alive here for _centuries_ , he told himself.

_Oh, yes,_ he replied _, and if he hurts anyone here, you’ll be buried_ _far deeper_. _Forever_.

He stopped. His hand was on the bowl.

The only thing between him and Falling was the good will of a demon. A demon who had already betrayed him, who had destroyed every tattered shred of hope and self-belief left in his heart. And he _knew_ that his own Fall rankled in Crowley, how could it not? Maybe he’d love the opportunity to make an angel suffer like he’d suffered.

“Are you doing magic?” the rabbi asked behind him, and Aziraphale sniffed, and dashed at his eyes.

“Yes, and it’s quite difficult – now I have to start again…”

The Fall or the Cube. Which would he rather have? Would he have let someone else Fall if it meant never being put in there? His thoughts swarmed, his head ached, his throat closed.

If Crowley attacked the humans, he’d have to discorporate him. Yes. He would hate to do it, but he could.

The idea of killing Crowley just to prevent his own Fall made him feel sick.

But the humans didn’t deserve to die either. Aziraphale had to protect them.

He couldn’t leave Crowley buried alone in the earth.

_Crawly, oh, Crawly!_

With red earth packed beneath his fingernails, he reached down, and lifted the bowl.

Crowley exploded out, in a swirling mass of sick yellow light and scales and claws and black feathers. “No!” Aziraphale shouted, and wrapped his arms around the painful magic as Crowley’s body reassembled itself. “No!”

“Ssstep assside-!”

“Croceus!” Aziraphale shouted. Better not to give Crowley’s chosen name to someone as magically adept as Rav Shmuel. He tightened his bear hug. “Don’t!”

“I will ssskin your missssserable daughter in front of you-“

“No, you won’t! Please!” Aziraphale clung to Crowley, and fisted his hand in his hair. “I promised them, I _promised_ you wouldn’t hurt them-“

“More fool you,” Crowley growled, and struggled to free himself.

“I swore to God that you wouldn’t hurt him! _Please_ ,” Aziraphale begged. His fear grew as the enormity of what he’d risked began to truly dawn on him. “Please. Please, Crow- Croceus. I can’t break that promise. I swore to Her. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Crowley stopped, and pulled away just enough to look down at Aziraphale. His eyes were huge, stretched wide, and as yellow as buttercups. “You did what?”

“I’m begging you. _Please_.”

Crowley exhaled sharply through his teeth. Then he shoved Aziraphale back from him. He pointed his finger, still blackened and clawed, over Aziraphale’s shoulder; he snarled at Rabbi Shmuel, baring his fangs. “You have _no blessed idea_ how lucky you are that he’s here. If there was any other angel in Nippur today you’d be _dead_ -“

“Angel?” said Rav Shmuel.

“Messenger, from Pumbedita, he means,” Aziraphale said quickly. He had been suddenly blinded by tears of relief. “Wonderful – thank you – all sorted, all worked out for the best, everyone’s happy. We’ll leave Nippur right now, won’t come back; thank you for being so understanding!” He grabbed Crowley’s arm and pulled him desperately. “Come _on_.”

Crowley’s face was still painted over with rage, but he allowed Aziraphale to yank him out into the street. Aziraphale bent over, panting in relief, and then felt the cold hand of fear squeeze his heart again. “Out of Nippur by first light – we have to go, we have to _leave_ -“

“Not before a drink. I need to get really, really fucking drunk, angel, and then you can explain to me what-“

“After we leave!”

“It’s not even midnight!”

Between shouts of exasperation and fear and frustration, in Latin and Greek and Persian and Hebrew, they compromised on Crowley banging on the tavern doors, paying four solidi for two flasks of wine, and one storming, one staggering out of Nippur into the night.

The night was cool, without a single cloud in the sky. The area around Nippur was well-irrigated by the Euphrates, flat and filled with wildflowers, the landscape dotted by the odd tree, and to the south-east was the green marshland where Aziraphale had first been brought by Gabriel.

What if Rav Shmuel believed he was an angel? What if Gabriel found out he’d rescued a demon?

The demon in question had sat on the first clump of grass that looked comfortable, and pulled the cork from his wine flask with his teeth. Aziraphale noticed his hands were shaking, and a thin line of wine dribbled from the corner of Crowley’s mouth.

He unsteadily sat down, and reach out to touch Crowley’s arm. Crowley pulled it away.

“Are you all right?”

“Do I look all right?” Crowley spat, showing his fangs, and took another untidy gulp of wine.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said. He dropped his hand. “Thank you.”

“Whatever.”

“I mean it. If you’d tried to hurt them, I’d have- I’d have had to kill you. Or…”

“Or Fall.” The starlight was bright enough that Aziraphale could see a muscle working in Crowley’s jaw. “Only you, angel.”

“Only me?”

“Only you could bungle a rescue so badly that you’re left either needing rescue from the rescue-ee, or killing him yourself.” But Crowley, having noticed Aziraphale hadn’t undone his own flask, handed his across. “Drink.”

It was easier in the moment to obey, and the wine was rich and sweet. Aziraphale closed his eyes, and swallowed. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time I save you from centuries of imprisonment.”

Crowley snorted. Then sighed. “Shit.”

Aziraphale put his hand around Crowley’s back, and his felt his muscles tense. Then the demon relaxed, and his head dropped down onto Aziraphale’s shoulder.

There were _so many stars_. And then there was Crowley, cuddling close to him, and Aziraphale felt their twin lonelinesses like stones in their throats. The thought of Crowley, buried alive for years – no one to joke with or make fun of, nothing to plan, nothing to think of except Hell and torment and the absence of God-

The constellations swirled and swam, softening into wet starlight, and Aziraphale put both his arms around Crowley, tightened his grip, and felt the demon’s long shudder.

*

Aziraphale’s dark coat smelt terrible. A sharp scent lingered in its fibres: lime and urine. The Jews in his editing workshop hadn’t spared any expense when it came to their parchment, obviously: Aziraphale always said the best parchment came from Pergamum… But as Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder, beneath the protective writing robe was the myrrh-speckled warmth of Aziraphale’s own clothes, and then beneath that, the bright, clear smell of Aziraphale himself. Snow, soap, apple blossom…

No sulphur. No blood. The things Aziraphale would smell of if he’d Fallen. It was too big for Crowley to wrap his head around, even with his thoughts still as sharp as skewers. His initial irritation had deepened into panic over the hours he’d spent trapped in that bowl, buffeted by the current of the spell, spinning and overwhelmed, encased in the darkness.

“I know,” the angel was saying softly above his head. Knuckles were rubbing gently up and down Crowley’s spine. “I know. It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not.” The ghost of his terror had settled on his skin, making the night feel freezing cold; it had solidified into glass, and it caught and sliced in the back of his throat.

This was what Aziraphale had been feeling. In Waset. This trembling weakness. The aftermath of that sick helplessness. As though the current of magic would carry him away at any instant, and the only thing anchoring him to anything that wasn’t animal fear was the enemy he was clinging to. And for that enemy to then be _kind…_

Whatever Aziraphale could have asked for in this moment, Crowley would have given it. And instead the angel was telling him everything was fine now, and rubbing his back like a human mother with her child…

“I’m so sorry.”

He said it without thinking. Aziraphale’s hand didn’t even slow. “Nothing to be sorry for, my dear – it was an impressive spell! It all turned out all right in the end.”

“For Waset.”

Aziraphale went very still. He didn’t ask what had made Crowley think of Waset, thank Satan – it was sometimes such a blessed _relief_ to have someone know what was going on in his head without Crowley having to torture his thoughts into words. “It’s all right.”

“It’s _not_.”

“It is.”

“No! You were like this, and I feel fucking- and it ruined everything! For nothing!” Crowley pulled away harshly and squeezed his eyes shut. “I ruined everything for nothing. Again, and again!”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley wanted to tear the angel’s head off in revenge for the tenderness and the compassion in his voice. Or his own. “You know I’ve already forgiven you.”

“But I didn’t _know_ – I didn’t realise- argh!” Crowley threw up his hands in frustration. The stars stared down at them in mockery, reminding him that things could never be the same again. Things could never be simple and clean again.

“I know. And you were afraid. I know what it’s like, to do horrible things when you’re afraid and angry and don’t know what else to do.”

Crowley scoffed at this with the contempt it deserved. “ _You_?”

“Yes. Things you’re ashamed of. Or things to… to try to feel less helpless.”

Crowley wished he could hate Aziraphale. He wished for anything other than the understanding on the angel’s face. He could have borne anything else.

Aziraphale reached out his hand, and through his skin Crowley could feel the heartache bleeding through. And other things – things he barely remembered the names of. Admiration. Affection. Longing…

“It was a horrible experience. Being alone with your thoughts makes you realise things. It’s all right to be upset by it…”

Crowley felt a spike of something sharp and uncomfortable, and far more familiar. Self-loathing. The angel wriggled like a bird shaking raindrops from its wings. “But it’s over now. You’re free…”

“Shut up,” Crowley said, because of course he wasn’t. He was tied to Hell, forever, and now he was tied to this stupid, idiot, reckless _fool_ of an angel. He was like one of those criminals, tied between crazed horses that would run in opposite directions and tear him apart. Aziraphale could have rescued Crowley without the Rabbi’s permission. He had the power. He wouldn’t even have needed to kill them, just to paralyse them as he lifted up their threshold stone!

And instead he’d put himself on the line, over a fucking piece of pottery and some cheap ink and _Crowley_.

What a fucking idiot. What a prize _moron_. Crowley couldn’t _understand it_. The questions rose in his mind alongside the bile in his throat.

“Why?” he croaked, and pulled back. “Why, angel?”

Aziraphale looked uncomfortable. The corner of his lip quirked up into a nervous smile. “I’m an angel. Not a monster… Do you really think I could have left you alone in there?”

The shame and the anger and the love were like shale in his lungs. “You _bastard_ ,” Crowley said, and kissed him.

It was almost a bite, rather than a kiss. Crowley didn’t why he felt so furious until he realised it wasn’t fury at all: it was need and grief, and he was surprised neither of them chipped their fucking teeth with the force that their mouths came together. It wasn’t so much a kiss as a mutual headbutt – a lip-bruising, teeth-rattling, nose-twisting press of desperation that tasted of salt, and unbearable aching in the throat and the heart.

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale moaned against his skin, and froze.

Crowley stopped. He leant back. “What?”

“I can’t.” Aziraphale’s mouth was twisting, and Crowley just wanted to bite that lower lip. “We can’t.”

“Why not?” Crowley pressed his hand to the side of Aziraphale’s neck, and felt his pulse jump. “You want to. I can feel it. I know what people want and you want _this._ ”

Aziraphale scrambled to his feet. From below, the starlight shining through his white hair was like a halo. “I want… Last time-“

Crowley stared up at him. “You said you’d forgiven me.”

“I have. I _have_ , Crowley. But… if it happened again. If it happened again, I couldn’t- please-“

“It didn’t happen. Nothing happened. I did something.”

“I let myself be persuaded.”

“ _No_. I persuaded you. I tricked you.” Cold weariness was creeping over him. “You don’t trust me.”

“... I’m so sorry.”

Crowley bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted iron. “No. No. It’s fine. I mean, you know, _demon_.” Fuck this. Fuck everything. Crowley looked around in the grass for their wine flasks. “Just impressed that you’ve finally wised up.”

Aziraphale crouched down again, and gingerly handed a flask to him. “I thought I wouldn’t survive it last time. The… shame. The… everything. And I was so alone for so long, and now we’re… well, we’re friends, aren’t we? If something went wrong, I’d lose my only friend, and I can’t do that again, I _can’t_ -“

Aziraphale’s voice was cracking, and Crowley made a decision. He tugged Aziraphale down and uncorked the wine. “Okay.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to squeeze his eyes shut against the hot sting of tears. “Last time, after it… after it _went_ wrong, we barely spoke for fifteen hundred years. We’d be alone again, friendless again, and I just… I can’t. Please, Crowley. I need a friend. I need _someone_ …”

“All right, angel. All right. Open your eyes, drink this.”

Aziraphale obeyed so readily, tears spilling, and the flagrancy of _that_ trust broke something in Crowley.

Aziraphale could understand why someone could give him wine to stop him from talking. He could trust that. He couldn’t trust why someone would want to kiss him, though.

Crowley wished he could ask who had given Aziraphale such a low opinion of his company. Who had made him think that he could only ever be kissed by someone with an ulterior motive?

He wished he could ask because that would mean he didn’t know the answer.

A quick wave of his hand made the other flask fill again. “I understand. So, I propose a toast. To friendship.”

Aziraphale looked at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

“Even if I don’t want to…”

“Yes. Yeah. No funny business. Unless you count whatever your robe smells of.”

Aziraphale laughed damply, and held up his flask. “It’s my scribe’s robe-“

“You never used to have one, it stinks-“

“That’s because we used papyrus, there wasn’t the quicklime issue-“

“It’s disgusting. Honestly.” Crowley knocked the leather flask against Aziraphale’s with a gentle thump. He knew what he needed to do now. “I need to get you some more oil of myrrh.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the one hand, I am now being addressed as Dr in e-mails! On the other, all the e-mails are job rejections. So, in the interest of cheering myself up, this and the next chapter are pure self-indulgence, with Aziraphale taking a starring role in one of the stupidest stories of the Papacy, with cameos from some of our favourite 13th century Italians! Thank you so much for all your wonderful comments, you have no idea what a joy and a pleasure they are, and how often I reread them whenever I need a boost! <3

Crowley quickly found a balance. A rhythm. When he spotted something he knew the angel would like, he bought it and placed it in a little pocket dimension at the back of his mind. Aleppo soap, frankincense, new confections with date syrup and crushed pistachios, filigreed brooches, embroidered hair bands, boxes inlaid with nacre, plum wine. And books. Always books. Books more than anything.

Then, when he ran into Aziraphale, he would whip out the latest gift, grinning widely while the angel’s hands fluttered in pleasure, and then say that Aziraphale now had to come out drinking with him. He needed _someone_ who understood to whom he could moan about Hastur. Someone who could appreciate his victory with William the Bastard. Perhaps he could entreat Aziraphale to hop over to Ireland for him – not to do anything, just to give him some news he could report Downstairs…

He threw in something work-related once a century or so. So that Aziraphale didn’t think he was humouring him. That he didn’t think Crowley was pretending. He wanted to convince the angel that their continued friendship was something Crowley benefitted from in every regard, so that it didn’t feel too unequal. So that Aziraphale didn’t feel he was being set up for some big betrayal down the line.

Again.

But, equally, he made sure that in the vast majority of cases, the only thing he asked of Aziraphale was his company.

Crowley hadn’t seen Aziraphale for a good decade; he’d been in the East, having a whale of a time. But now Kublai Khan was dead, and so he was on his way back to Europe with new tinted glasses, several Chinese and Mongolian books for Aziraphale, and a lot of top-grade opium from Constantinople for them to enjoy together.

Marco was going on and on about how excited he was to soon see Venice again. Crowley drowned him out.

“Antonio? Antonio?”

Oh, right, that was him. “Sorry, what?”

“I was saying that you must come to stay with my family,” said Marco. “The house of the Polos will always be open to you; I don’t know what would have become of us if you hadn’t persuaded Ghazan to marry Kököchin.”

“Ah, it would’ve been fine. Don’t sweat it. I’ve actually got business in the south.” Crowley was rubbish at scrying, but he’d been able to get a vague idea of where Aziraphale was. “But maybe on my way back north I’ll drop in. Have some proper drinks again.”

“Oh, no! One thing I will _not_ miss is the kumis!”

“Fucking liar,” Crowley said with a grin. “Anyway, I’ve heard on the grapevine – that Catalan in the caravanserai, remember? – that Genoa and Venice are getting testy again, so don’t do anything too stupid. See you, Million!”

Florence was its usual hotbed of murderous politics, vanity, pride and back-stabbing; Crowley breathed deep and feel his muscles relax. It was like a holiday town. He meandered for a while, but there was no sign or scent of Aziraphale. He thought he’d found him at one point – a strange hint of cosmic _ineffability_ and _knowledge_ on the air – but when he followed it, he ended up coming across an apothecary’s instead. It was almost empty, being rented out to a young nobleman hoping to make it in politics. Florence was a plutocracy, the merchants and the bankers held all the power, and the republic had just passed a new law stating that only guild-members could run for office. He got chatting to the young “apothecary” and glanced over his books – books being sold occasionally alongside the drugs, and wouldn’t _that_ make Aziraphale go into paroxysms over the intoxication of literature or some such nonsense.

He turned a slim little manuscript over in his hands: a mixture of poetry and prose, all in Italian.

“Ah, that’s my own libello,” said the apothecary with a coy smile.

Crowley opened it at random. _And I will say, still sobbing as speech fails, that she suddenly went to Heaven – and has left Love below, to mourn with me…_ “I have a friend who likes reading. How much?”

The apothecary named a rather ridiculous price, even for a manuscript, and Crowley realised that he’d written it out himself as well. Nobles valued their time so highly, and for all his self-deprecating smiles the young man had a rather high opinion of himself. Still, Crowley handed over the florins, and asked the author to sign his work.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Aziraphale.”

The young man nodded, and wrote on the front page. “To Aziraffaello, with my best wishes - Durante di Alighiero degli Alighieri.”

Dante (as he apparently wished to be called) closed up the stall and invited Crowley to dinner at his home, to celebrate the sale of his first book. Crowley found that he enjoyed his company: he was passionate, petty, and engaged in politics with a fervour, a stubbornness, and a malice that was very amusing.

Even more than the Guelphs and the Ghibillines, even more than Venice and Genoa going to war, the great topic of conversation was the pope.

Apparently, the papal election after Nicholas IV had died had gone on for two years: the typical battle of pro-Aragon Colonna against pro-French Orsini. The French cardinal Cholet died, deepening the stalemate. All prisoners had been released, as was the tradition during a _sede vacante_ , and Rome was swiftly becoming anarchic. Churches were sacked, pilgrims robbed and slain in the streets. With pressure from Charles of Naples increasing, the cardinals arrived at their breaking points, and when a letter arrived from a famous Benedictine hermit of Mount Murrone, warning them that if they didn’t elect a pope quickly there was going to be some rather nasty Heavenly wrath they’d have to deal with on top of everything else, one of the Orsini cardinals threw up his hands and nominated the saintly hermit. He was unanimously elected.

A Colonna cardinal went up the mountain to alert the new pope of his ascension. The Pope had apparently burst into tears and tried to run for it; unfortunately for him, Charles of Naples and his son, the King of Hungary, had gone to Mount Murrone to “do homage”, found the poor whitehair “lost in the woods” and “provided an escort of honour”… to Naples.

Crowley didn’t know what engendered his suspicion. It was already there even before Dante enjoyed himself describing the pope’s white hair and old robes, up around his knees as he ran through the forest. It was already there before he learnt that the hermit’s name was Pietro Angelerio, son of Angelo Angelerio. Maybe it was just the pure bad luck of it all that made him think of Aziraphale. He could see how it happened – Heaven growing frustrated by the lack of pope, telling Aziraphale to do something to make them get a move on…

The new pope was crowned (twice, for various sets of cardinals) and took the name Celestine. Apparently, he immediately began consulting with canon lawyers as to whether he could resign. Naples, wringing everything they could out of the captive pontiff, was understandably reluctant, but after a five month-long battle of wills Celestine resigned, and Benedetto Caetani became Pope Boniface.

Boniface kept poor Celestine close with a chain on the road to Rome – for his own protection, as he wanted, of course, lest anyone else capture him and prop him up as an antipope. Celestine managed to escape at San Germano, and evaded Boniface for several months in the woods. He was finally captured again, apparently trying to escape to Greece, and now was Boniface’s prisoner in the tower of the castle of Fumone, guarded day and night.

“But it’s not enough,” Dante reasoned. “Boniface is a terror. A murderous, evil, wicked, loathsome man. He keeps meddling in our politics – he kicked one of our envoys in the face, when he was kneeling before him. The pope, kicking an ambassador in the face! He made stupid old Celestine resign, I’m sure of it. It won’t be long until he kills him too.”

Crowley thanked the young man for the dinner, the wine, and the news most of all. Then he left.

*

Getting into the Castle was easy; he just walked in, completely invisible. Navigating it was more difficult. He aimed down instead of up, knowing that a kitchen was the heart of any building, and there he found the cook, and three of the off-duty guards.

On the table was a letter and a heavy-looking purse. Apparently, Celestine had been taking too long to starve to death, and had annoyingly refused to fall dead as a result of pneumonia from being doused in cold water, or from increasingly harsh beatings for imagined misdemeanours.

It was interesting, the mental barriers humans tried to put up around their sins. The idea that starving and beating a prisoner for talking out of turn or accidentally making eye contact was one thing, but quickly cutting his throat was quite another. No one wanted the final responsibility. That was why executioners were so loathed, Crowley reasoned, even when they were carrying out the law. It shifted the locus of shame from the person giving the order to the person wielding the blade.

He slunk around the kitchen, and thought about how much fun he was going to have if it _was_ Aziraphale being held prisoner in this castle.

“Read it again,” one said.

“It says I’ll have a dispensation. Full indulgence.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“It’s the _pope,_ Matteo!”

Matteo shook his head. “No, he’s not. He resigned. The _actual_ pope is giving you an order.”

“He was crowned! He was crowned Pope!”

“So was Boniface. And if he says it’s not a sin, it’s not a sin. You know that.”

“I’d still have to confess. If something happens before then, I’ll have a mortal sin on me,” the best-dressed guard was saying. He was looking at the letter like it was a scorpion. “Indulgences don’t cover that.”

“It’s a shame the two _Celestines_ died. One of them could have absolved you. Tell you what,” said Matteo, leaning across the table. “Call Father Giosue from Maria Annunziata and he can absolve you.”

“Unless you fall down the stairs afterwards,” said the cook darkly from her post by the fire.

“ _See_?!”

“Don’t be so ridiculous! Call the priest, and we won’t let him leave until he absolves you. Or just show him the letter, he’s able to read. The Pope _himself_ says it’s all right. It’s _good_ to do it. Better than a war over it.”

“You do it, then.” The guard shoved the purse across the table. “As you’re so sure.”

“I am.” Matteo stood up and tossed the purse consideringly. “I’ll go to the priest tomorrow. Give me the letter?”

“You’re welcome to it. To the whole damn thing.”

“Thank you kindly.” Matteo was looking through the purse. “Right. No point in hanging around.”

Crowley agreed whole-heartedly. He followed Matteo as he climbed up into the tower. He’d decided he was going to kill the man whether Celestine really was the angel or not. The irony was just too funny to resist.

The cell was tiny, the size and shape of a coffin, with rough stone walls, no window, and a door of iron bars. Huddled on the floor, in an old robe, was Aziraphale.

He looked _terrible_. Crowley hadn’t seen him look so thin in centuries. His hair was longer than usual, touching his shoulders in lank, grimy waves – it looked more grey than white, and Crowley was forcefully reminded of Hastur.

He had a black eye.

Crowley was dragged back through time in an instant, back to Pi-Ramesses, buried under the sand for more than two thousand years. He saw it through a red haze: a slave overseer opening up Aziraphale’s cheek with a whip.

“All right, old man,” said Matteo. “Say your prayers. I’ll give you a minute.”

Aziraphale looked at the knife Matteo had unsheathed. “Oh – oh, my dear boy, please, please don’t. That’s a very grave sin… Please. Wait for a moment. Honestly, just-“

“Honestly, just shut up, say your prayer, and I’ll make it very quick,” Matteo said. “Over in a second. I promise.”

“You don’t _understand_ ,” Aziraphale was saying. He was still sitting on the floor. That was worrying. “If I die _here_ , oh, it’ll be dreadful – and murder, murder is-“

“Is what the Pope’s ordered. You must have known it was only a matter of time.” Matteo’s hand was shaking. The confidence he’d shown in the kitchen was draining away. He began to fumble with the lock of the cell. “Just – say your fucking prayer!”

“You don’t need to do this,” Aziraphale said, voice haggard and thick. He was trying to stand up, to look Matteo in the eyes, but his face was grey and damp.

Why was Aziraphale not _doing_ _something_? Why had he not healed himself? Crowley felt his stomach twisting nastily.

“Yeah, well, I’m going to,” the guard snapped. “Just make it _easy_ for yourself and-“

Crowley glided up behind Matteo, and let his hand sink through the man’s back. No blood, no mess – just a sudden, horrified gasp of pain, and then a sick _hrkk_ in his throat as Crowley sank his claws into the man’s heart and _twisted_.

Crowley became visible as Matteo collapsed, unbloodied and very dead, to the floor.

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. His eyes widened.

“ _Crowley_!”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of Papal Adventures! Some of you got it right, that the little book Crowley bought was La Vita Nuova; the Divine Comedy won't be written for a decade or so, when Dante is in exile... and after he gets very pissed with an angel and a demon, perhaps? The poor real Celestine had a rotten time of it, but he was made a saint by the Catholic Church a few years after his death, so he got the last laugh over Boniface in the end.

Aziraphale knew that he ought to disapprove – he’d literally just been saying how grave a sin murder was! – but between the shock, the relief, and the blooming warmth in his chest, there wasn’t any room for disapproval.

Crowley had come. Crowley had _killed_ for him. To save him. God, he knew it was wrong, but it made him feel… something he hadn’t felt in such a long time. Something he hadn’t felt since he last stood in the presence of God.

There was a corpse in front of him, and it made him feel _loved._

He really was the worst angel in existence.

Crowley made an exaggerated leg and grinned. “Your Holiness.”

“Oh, _don’t_ ,” Aziraphale croaked, and his swollen face hurt from his involuntary smile. “How did you know?”

“Heard what had happened and I thought, hmm, who is the only person in the world who _wouldn’t_ want to be the most powerful man in Europe?”

Aziraphale gestured with his good left hand. “Welcome to my palace. My tiara’s somewhere…”

“Boniface’s added a second crown, apparently. To show his temporal and spiritual power.”

“God Almighty…” Aziraphale tried to sit up straighter, and winced. “I was banking on him not actually stooping to murder…”

Crowley waved a hand over the chain and it slithered free and fell onto Matteo’s head. Crowley kicked him out of the way to open the cell door. “You were cutting it pretty close with the miracle there, angel.”

He felt his cheeks heat with the embarrassment. Shame was very familiar to him, but now it felt even heavier, with Crowley looking down at him in the idiotic predicament he’d fallen into. He needed to _explain_ , to prove that he wasn’t as stupid as he looked, but how could he disprove what was true? He really _was_ as stupid and as pathetic as he looked. “I was trying to think which would be worse...”

He frowned. Thoughts came with some difficulty these days. “I couldn’t perform any. Miracles, I mean. Since that damned letter. Gabriel made me send it, said I had to do something about the Pope situation…” Crowley’s hand was cool and soft on his face, and he groaned with relief as the horrible pressure on his left eye faded away. He was able to open it again at last, and see Crowley’s beautiful red hair…

“You certainly solved the stalemate.”

“A disaster. A complete farce… But they check our miracles. How many, how big, when… Where. And obviously they keep eyes on what the Pope’s doing, so if I performed any miracles…”

“They’d be able to see that they kept occurring where the Pope was,” Crowley said. “I didn’t know they kept such close tabs on you.”

“Not always. Not most of the time. They might go for centuries without a word, but I never know when Gabriel will decide to check up on me… Always have to be careful. I was waiting for a point where I could make a plausible excuse – I should have done it on the road, but there was always someone with me, and obviously a Pope performing miracles would reach Heaven-!”

“Aziraphale, calm down. Slow down, it’s all right.”

He shook his head. “I managed to resign and escape but someone had the idea of bringing some of my monks with them as hostages when I tried to make it to Dalmatia – they let them go but I had to let them take me here first, and then, well, the Pope wasn’t moving then, so I couldn’t – between Heaven and the guards I couldn’t… There was always someone _watching_ and I couldn’t-“

“Hey, hey,” Crowley said, and took his hand. “I get it. Caught between a rock and a hard place, eh?”

Aziraphale hadn’t realised he’d been shaking. He gripped Crowley’s hand despite the pain. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to fake my death – decorporate and re-enter it when there was… But they’d make sure, wouldn’t they? One of them, one of them said I was taking so long to starve they’d put a nail in my head to make sure I was dead - and then one kicked me and I think the spleen’s ruptured, so if I left the body would die and then I’d be…”

“All right, angel, all right. Slow down, I’m losing track,” Crowley said. His voice was so _kind_. “You’re injured?”

“No – well, yes,” Aziraphale admitted. “Nothing fatal – nothing immediately fatal. They’ve been trying to hurry it along with some plausible deniability. It always comes back to plausible deniability, doesn’t it? Not the spleen, obviously, but I can’t heal it until…”

“Until you’re a reasonable distance away from Pope Celestine’s last known location,” Crowley nodded thoughtfully. “Or I can. I’m generally not very good at healings, but the more gory ones… Where’s the spleen again?”

It was awkward to indicate only using his left hand, but he guided Crowley’s to the place underneath his left elbow. “There…”

Crowley pressed his hand to the bottom of Aziraphale’s ribcage to psychically seek out the organ beneath; Aziraphale’s ribs _moved_ with a crackle and a sharp stabbing pain. He squeaked. When he opened his eyes, Crowley was staring with him with red-hot fury.

“Sorry,” he said without thinking. Maybe Crowley wanted him to be quiet – maybe the fury was really contempt, he wasn’t the best at reading faces, especially when he was tired or upset – he didn’t understand _why_ Crowley was angry with him but he couldn’t bear it, he couldn’t bear yet more people shouting at him to make a decision, to do this, to do that, to look down or die already or _do better_ , he just wanted Crowley not to look at him with such rage- “I’m sorry-“

“You’re not the one who has to be sorry,” Crowley said, and while the anger was still on his face is voice was gentle. “Let me…”

Crowley tore a hole in Aziraphale’s robe, and laid his hand flat to his skin. Aziraphale could _feel_ his mind, searching out the tattered lump of exploded flesh and clotted blood, picturing it _whole_ and _healthy_ , picturing it doing whatever it should be doing. “Is it working?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, with a wince. “Think slightly less solid – a little more like a filter, or a sieve – that’s it – then leave a little room for a blood reserve… Perfect. Perfect, my dear. Marvellous…”

“Out of immediate danger?” Crowley asked, as he turned to knitting Aziraphale’s ribs back together.

“Yes… Yes, that was the thing which would have been fatal…” Aziraphale had closed his eyes in relief, but he opened them again when a new worry occurred to him. “Is Hell going to be suspicious, about you healing…?”

“Nah, Hell’s bureaucracy could never identify any individual bits of magic, and we don’t have the same checks and limits you do. If anyone did ever raise their eyebrows at a healing, I’d just say the bastard was shriven and needed more time to sin.”

“You’re so clever,” he said, and that brought the icy wave of shame flooding back over him. It was a wonder Crowley could bear his company at all – a dense, idiotic angel who was too scared of a reprimand to miracle himself off the Papal Throne. “You’re so clever, Crowley – I know this looks like such an idiotic, _stupid_ -“

“Oi. None of that,” Crowley said sharply, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “If I’m so clever I can understand it, can’t I? You had a choice between performing a miracle where the Pope is being held, or being discorporated at the same time and in the same place that the Pope was killed. ‘ _What a remarkable coincidence, Aziraphale! Let’s take a closer look at this Pope, shall we?_ ’”

Aziraphale nodded desperately. “I’m sorry.”

“For Satan’s sake, don’t- It’s all right. Sorry. It’s fine. Okay,” Crowley said, and retreated out of the cell. He rolled Matteo over, and pulled power up with a click of his fingers.

Suddenly, the corpse on the ground was Aziraphale. Dirty and thin, with a bruised face and lank hair.

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Oh, is that _really_ …?”

“Not for long,” Crowley promised, with a flashing grin. “Though I’m loving the vanity. We’ll have you looking like your beautiful self as soon as we’re out.”

Crowley arranged Matteo’s corpse in the cell, swiped the Papal dispensation and the purse, and stuck a dagger between the ribs. After that, Aziraphale was more aware of how strong Crowley’s arm was around his waist, holding him up, and how his legs refused to walk after being confined for so long. As though in a dream they went through the Castle, meeting no one, doors opening with ease.

“It’s about five miles to Ferentino,” Crowley was saying to him. The walls of the Castle loomed vast and dark around them. “If I nick a horse, do you think you can stay on it for that long? It’ll take a couple of hours, but it’ll be safer.”

“Stealing’s a sin…”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Come on, horsey – no, fuck, shut up! – look, nice angel, look at the lovely angel…”

The horse nibbled his hair, and Aziraphale clumsily patted her nose.

“That’s it, great, all friends here – do _not_ bite me, I am _not_ in the mood – all right, up you – what’s wrong with your hand?”

“Just hurts a little,” Aziraphale said, and sagged when Crowley healed the broken bones. “Oh…”

“Up you get – lean forward. Hold its hair… That’s it.”

The horse smelt clean and warm, and the May evening was balmy. He hadn’t seen the sky in months… He must have drifted in and out of sleep – another atrocious habit for an angel, another failing – because he was aware of the journey only in flashes of sight or sensation; the jolting movement of the mare, the final rays of sunlight setting Crowley’s hair alight, the sudden chill that set him trembling.

“I’ve got an idea.”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale blinked Crowley back into focus. “An idea?”

“You need to rest. Something to eat. And I need to heal whatever else you’re not telling me about. Can I… I can change your robe to a shift. I won’t do anything to your body. But I can make your hair look longer, darker. The Pope’s body’s in Fumone, and if you’re my wife… No one will ever connect the dots.”

Aziraphale suddenly felt very breathless. “Your wife…?”

“Yeah.” Crowley wasn’t looking at him; he stared dead ahead, at the gates of Ferentino. “It’ll get us somewhere with a bathtub and a decent bed. I didn’t want… Didn’t want to just… You know.”

“I think it’s clever,” Aziraphale managed to say around the lump in his throat and the painful throbbing in his chest. Crowley nodded tightly, and led the horse into the town.

Aziraphale heard Crowley speaking to a woman outside what was presumably an inn – something about his wife being attacked by robbers on the road – and the woman asked whether she could fetch a doctor; she helped Aziraphale down from the horse, fussing and saying how dangerous the roads were these days. The hair that fell in front of his eyes was suddenly very long, thick and heavy, and a dull wheaten colour.

He was dimly aware of the woman saying that there was a wooden tub in the lower kitchen, if they wanted to use it. If she noticed that two buckets filled it, she didn’t mention it, or that the water was steaming by the time Crowley helped Aziraphale’s robe-turned-chemise up over his head.

A linen tent-like canopy hung from the ceiling beam, and Crowley arranged the flaps of it so that Aziraphale’s body couldn’t be seen. “There,” he said softly. It created a small, steamy haven. Somewhere beyond Aziraphale could hear the woman speaking to someone in Neapolitan, but it was very far away.

“Where are we?”

Crowley frowned, and Aziraphale felt so guilty at making him wear that expression. “Ferentino. Remember?”

“Ah. Yes…” The inside of the bath-tent was warm – how long had it been since he had felt _warm_? – and through the lacuna he could see Crowley’s eyes and hair, alive and bright in the light of the kitchen fire.

Crowley seemed to be sitting on a stool, and he leant forward, his elbow on the rim of the tub. Human nakedness held no great interest for either of them. “I thought you might fall off the horse if we tried any further, but we’re a good five miles away, and this place is ten times the size of Fumone.”

“Yes. Yes… I do remember, now you say it.” He knew he needed to explain somehow, to smooth Crowley’s furrowed brow. “It scatters my thoughts, you see? They go everywhere, and it… it hurts too much, to order them properly. To see clearly. Because… the fear sharpens as well. Easier to sleep, or to… to let it all unravel. Makes it softer.”

“I’m trying to. You just relax, and we’ll sort all that out later. Where else hurts, mio angelo?”

“Everywhere. Sorry. Um…” He tried to make himself aware of his body, beyond the hot water and the balm of the water. “Just… Open knees. Back. One of my teeth is loose…”

“Which side. Left?” Crowley reached into the small tent to touch his cheek, and the stabbing pain faded. “Where else?”

“I don’t know. I can’t… I’m so sorry, Crowley.”

“Stop apologising.”

“I am, though. All this trouble – and you’re being so kind. I don’t know why you’re being so kind…”

Through the lacuna he saw Crowley look sharply away. The amber light flickered on a muscle working in his jaw. “You’re my friend. Aren’t you?”

“This is all rather above and beyond the call of friendship.”

“Yeah, now you really _are_ being-“ Crowley exhaled sharply through his nose, and looked straight at him. “How do you feel, when you do something kind for someone?”

“Good.” He curled up in the tub until he could rest his head on the lined rim. “It always makes me feel quite wonderful. Happy.”

“Well, there you go. It makes me feel good too. So I’m just being selfish.”

“But I’m an angel,” Aziraphale said, frowning in thought. “So it’s… just what I was made for. Like humans and breathing.”

“Is it?” Crowley’s face was very close to his now. “Aziraphale, I don’t think it is. Remember, I knew plenty of angels before you. None of them were kind. None of them seemed to enjoy doing kind things for humans. And none of them were ever kind to me. Can you imagine Zahabiel getting me out of that bowl in Nippur? Or inviting me in from a sandstorm? It’s not automatic. It’s not instinctive. You’re choosing to be kind. And I’m a demon, but I enjoy being kind to you as well. So we’re both making choices, aren’t we?”

This was too much for his tired mind. He closed his eyes.

“Turn around a bit,” Crowley suddenly said. “Let me do your hair.”

Aziraphale groaned. He hated how stiff it felt, with dust and grime and worse. He tried to sit up. “I couldn’t…”

“’Course you could. I'd do it with a miracle so I don't have to smell it, but my cleaning magic always smells a bit like sulphur. More like fumigating something than cleaning it. And it means you can shut up while I lecture.” Aziraphale heard the scrape of the stool, and suddenly warm water was pouring over his face and head. He moaned with pleasure.

“There,” Crowley said, sounding very pleased with himself. “It makes you feel good, and then it makes me feel good. I did something that sparked a response, didn’t I? It makes you feel less… Less like you’re sleepwalking through life. Seeing the cause and effect of your actions. It makes you feel powerful. Capable of choosing… I want that too. I want to have a choice. If I have a choice, I can enjoy it more when I’m a dick; otherwise I’m just Hell’s little wind-up toy. I want to experience more than just what Hell expects me to. It's a bit of rebellion against them, really, isn't it? So being kind to someone feels good to me too. Not just good. It makes me feel less like… a demon, I suppose.”

Crowley’s fingers were gentle on his scalp, magically smoothing away every bump or cut they found. Aziraphale could smell something familiar, something clean, something… “I understand. More like a human, in a way…”

“Yeah. More like a human. But not just that. It makes me feel like _me_ instead. Does that make sense? More like Crowley than Crawly. Demons are boring. Anyone that’s all evil is so _boring_. Anyone that’s all _anything_ is boring. Humans aren’t. And you aren’t. I wanted to laugh when your vanity was so offended up there. You’re so petty sometimes. You’re outright bitchy when you’ve had a drink, and you hate things. All the other angels I’ve ever met only despise things. There’s a difference. For angels, for other angels, I mean, it’s all just contempt for everything beneath them. But you hate some things because you love _other_ things.”

“Like Antioch…”

“Like Antioch. Or Sir Agravaine. Flamingo tongue in garum.”

“Urgh… Pig womb in vinegar.”

“Don’t remind me. Beer. That fake Arabic everyone’s mad for-“

“That’s not petty! I keep spotting it in a painting or on a building and thinking it’s real Arabic and then I try to read it and I suddenly realise…”

Crowley snorted. “Exactly. Close your eyes, I’m rinsing…” And as he did, Aziraphale barely heard it over the sound of the water; Crowley’s voice, softly saying, “Besides. You’re very easy to be kind to.”

He opened his eyes in shock. In his hand, Crowley held out a smoothed cube the colour of beeswax, and suddenly Aziraphale could place the scent: laurel oil.

“Crowley! How did you- Where did you _find_ it?”

“Aleppo. Obviously.”

“You went to Aleppo…?”

“Of course not. It’s the standard route to Constantinople. Honestly.”

“And you thought of me?”

“Only-“ Crowley said, and swallowed something. The exasperation on his face turned to sadness. “Now and again.”

The thought of Crowley in the souq, turning over bars and arguing with the maker, thinking of him… Maybe it had been jade green, when Crowley had bought it. And he had carried it all the way here, for him.

He was trying to find a way to say something through the tears caught in his throat when Crowley twitched the linen sheets closed. “I’ll root us out something to eat. You’re far too thin. You don’t look like yourself.”

By the time he was in the bed, between the feather mattress and the sheets and the quilted counterpane, skin squeaky clean and unfamiliar long hair damp against his neck, they hadn’t dissolved. He couldn’t eat; the sight of the bread and butter and cured ham and apples which Crowley had bought for them turned his empty stomach. Crowley leant against the wall beside him, on top of the sheets but under the counterpane, and he looked worried.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said. “I just… For a while I haven’t- Feel a bit…”

“It’s fine. It’ll keep until the morning. Sleep’ll be better.”

“Angels shouldn’t sleep. We’re not meant to sleep.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t. How’s the head?”

“A little clearer…” He wanted to turn away, so that Crowley couldn’t see his face, but it felt so _ungrateful_ , after all Crowley had done for him. Caught in a vice between guilt and shame, as always. “It was being alone. Trapped. It was better this time, because there were people, even if they… being a little unkind. Only eight months. And… My thoughts go places. Went places. Horrible places. But I still couldn’t keep them untangled. Like weaving – have you ever done weaving? When you’re trying to keep all the skeins separate.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said seriously, and Aziraphale looked up. “Eight months is a hell of a long time to be alone in a place like that. It’d send anyone a bit doo-lally.”

Aziraphale laughed. He thought he was laughing, at least, but what came out of his mouth didn’t sound like a laugh, and his aching shoulders were heaving and his eyes were streaming and Crowley was making anxious noises. “You must think I’m so stupid!”

“Of course I don’t. I think one day we’ll laugh about all this, but I don’t… I know you’re not stupid. I know how clever you are, angel. Come on. I think… you’re trying to navigate life through an invisible maze that no one else can see. None of us can see it, so when you walk in the street and double back or turn around or go back and forth… you just look like a lunatic.”

Aziraphale did manage a laugh then, a very damp one, and nodded.

Crowley smiled down at him, and it was so tender it threatened to make Aziraphale cry again. “So. Have a sleep, and if you want, I’ll play your husband up through the Papal States. Your erstwhile kingdom.”

“Oh, don’t!” Aziraphale said, and pressed his fingers to Crowley’s arm. It was meant to be a little shove. A teasing reproach in response to the gentle mockery. But he didn’t draw his hand back. He just let them rest on Crowley’s arm.

Crowley’s adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat. “Right. Go north. I’ve got a friend to look in on in Venice – oh, wait, that reminds me!” He twisted his hand, and a little book appeared. “Bought this in Florence. Some all right poetry. We can pop in to the author, he was good fun. _Hates_ Boniface. We’ll have a proper bitching session.”

Aziraphale’s chest hurt, but he was smiling. “Only if I can get very, very drunk.”

“I insist upon it. Bet you haven’t had a decent drink for a while.”

“You’re right, I haven’t. One can hardly get properly sloshed when one’s the Pope.”

“How many Popes have _you_ known, your Holiness?”

“Probably more than you.”

“In the morning we'll have to make a tally,” Crowley said, and in the dim light his teeth were gleaming. “I’ll just say you’re not the first Pope I’ve been in bed with.”

“ _What_?”

“Sleep well, mio angelo!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i luv mediaeval baff tent
> 
> I have _definitely_ read a fic where Crowley and Aziraphale go undercover as husband and wife in Renaissance Italy; I didn't copy this from them, I just thought it made sense, but please, if anyone remembers who wrote it, please let me know so I can properly credit them and link to it! <3
> 
> ETA: Thank you ZehWulf; I was thinking of [You, Soft and Only](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19874908) by [thehoyden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehoyden/pseuds/thehoyden)!


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are all just the kindest, loveliest readers a fanfic writer could wish for. Everything feels very dark and grim at the moment, and I've reread all your comments twice when I needed the encouragement to write, or just to get out of bed. THANK YOU SO MUCH. <333

Aziraphale smiled happily at the memory of that night in Florence as he shelved a copy of the _Inferno_ on the gleaming shelf. It wasn’t his oldest copy, by any means – one would be hard pressed to find an older copy of any part of the _The Divine Comedy_ than the oldest which Aziraphale possessed, being the autograph, as well as one of the first 1472 editions – rather, it was a first edition of Roger’s 1782 translation.

The new brass bell tinkled merrily, and as though Aziraphale had summoned him with a thought, there stood Crowley, bearing an enormous bouquet of ajisai – huge, perfect heads of purple, blue and pink.

“Oh, Crowley! Ajisai? How on _earth_ –“ he said, accepting the armful. The scent enveloped him.

“Hydrangeas; they’re called hydrangeas here,” Crowley corrected him. He was beaming, pleased with himself. As well he might; the new fashions of high necktie and short hair suited him extremely well. Much better than the curls and queue had back in 1793.

“Water-jars… They do open at the end of the rainy season.” Aziraphale smiled up at him, heart beating faster. “Oh, and the colours are just as beautiful as I remember…”

“I just asked for the most expensive flowers in the hot-house,” Crowley said with an attempt at a nonchalant shrug. “You know. To incite envy and resentment.”

“Of course – well, in that case, ought I to hide these away in the back-room?”

“Angel, you’re so wicked. So cruel to me.”

“All right, all right – you hold them, I’ll fill a vase and put them right here, under the skylight. I can’t believe that I’ve not even opened yet and you’re already trying to incite sin in my shop.”

He came back bearing a full vase. They could joke about inciting sin because Aziraphale was very strict about the boundaries of their relationship: social only. Crowley had tried a few times to suggest that he take over a blessing to save Aziraphale a trip, or that while Aziraphale was in an area on celestial business perhaps he wouldn’t mind doing the quickest little temptation…

He’d always shut that down, quickly and firmly. If either of them were caught… Well, Hell would probably be delighted at the idea of an angel tempting humans for a demon. Heaven would _not_ be so pleased, and Aziraphale knew exactly how badly things could get in Heaven when Heaven was displeased with him.

Besides, it meant all the more opportunities to run into each other and go for a drink, wherever they were in the world.

He let Crowley arrange the flowers to his exacting standards. The delicate lilacs and periwinkle blues and blushing pinks contrasted beautifully with the gilt and the warm wood of the bookshop. “Oh, my dear, _thank you_.”

“Got you chocolates too,” Crowley said, pulling a box wrapped with printed paper and tied off with a ribbon from wherever he stored things so that nothing ruined the line of his coat.

“Oh, marvellous. I probably ought to leave them out for the first customers… but then they might smear chocolate on the books, I’ll put them away. Unless you’d like to taste the first? I was just shelving some books, but it might be my last moment of peace for a while!”

They had enough time to take some tea as well. Aziraphale made Crowley’s sickly-sweet and scalding hot, just as he liked it. He nibbled a chocolate-coated almond nut and looked at the clock, ticking ever closer to noon.

He felt rather like the kettle – water bubbling inside him until he could sing with it. He shook some of his excess energy out of his hands and beamed until his cheeks ached. In just twenty minutes, he would be the official owner of a bookshop, and here with him to celebrate the moment was his best friend, with chocolate on their tongues and the scent of beeswax and asijai in the air.

“You’re going to blind me, angel, veil the candle a bit,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale realised that he was throwing a blue-white light onto him.

“Oh, sorry!”

“Don’t be,” Crowley said. His smile was absurdly tender. “Just don’t want you to scare away your first customers.”

“You’re quite right – that wouldn’t do at all.” Aziraphale brushed invisible crumbs from his lap and stood up; he straightened his necktie and hummed a bar of Bach. “Oh, oh! Perhaps you could go stand by these shelves here at the front, and look admiringly at the books? I so want today to go well; that utter snob John Hatchard said that I would never be able to open a bookshop in Soho of all places, and he’s sure to send one of his spies around.”

“I love the smell of deceit in the morning,” Crowley said, and posed with one hand behind his back, another against his lips in an image of contemplation.

“Perfect – you look perfect, my dear! And you must enjoy the deceit in the morning because you only have a few more seconds of it…” And as the grandfather clock began to chime, Aziraphale shook his wings in one last delighted wriggle, and flipped the immaculate new sign on the door to OPEN.

Nothing happened, of course. The shop did not instantly fill with customers. But it had been _done_ , he had achieved something he had been dreaming of for so many years, and he was happy.

“How long do I have to stand here?”

“Until someone comes in – though you can walk around, as though you’re looking at the other shelves. In case Hatchard is looking in through the windows and suspects something.”

Crowley moved around the shelf with aggressive nonchalance. “Do you think he’s in the brothel opposite with a spying glass?”

“Well, you know Anglicans,” Aziraphale said, and jumped in shock as the bell jingled. “Oh!”

The world collapsed around him.

While Aziraphale was wearing a long embroidered waistcoat, fifty years old, and Crowley had been wearing a high-cut tailcoat to show off how tightly his trousers were tailored, Gabriel was wearing a military-style jacket with tasselled Hessians. At his side, Sandalphon wore the same outfit in every particular, in beige and orange to Gabriel’s grey and lavender.

Aziraphale only had time for a single prayer: he asked God to give Crowley the sense or the instinct to make himself small. That was the only way with Gabriel. To make yourself so small it was as though you barely existed anymore.

Gabriel smiled a wide smile and held out his hands. “Aziraphale! _Wow_. Look at this place!”

“Gabriel!” Aziraphale cried out, and tried not to swallow his own tongue. “What a wonderful surprise!”

“You mentioned a new permanent spot in your last report, so I had Earth Surveillance look into it. Saw you had a grand opening for… Noon, local time.”

Aziraphale knotted his fingers together, in the hope that the shaking of his hands might be less obvious. “That’s… that’s very kind of you. I mean, if you’re here to celebrate…?”

“Got it in one, buddy! In fact, there’s even more to celebrate than you realise!”

There were invisible hives of bees swarming in Aziraphale’s ears. Gabriel began to flash oddly, in black and red and green. “… really…?”

“Yup!” Gabriel turned to Sandalphon with a flourish, who opened a small box.

A gold medal, a square the size of guinea. The lines on it swam before Aziraphale’s eyes, captured by the sacred geometry. It hung from a ribbon the colour of saffron.

“We just wanted to let you know that everything you’ve got up to hasn’t gone unnoticed,” Gabriel said as his lifted the medal up. He stepped forward to loop it around Aziraphale’s neck, so close that Aziraphale could see the dust of tailor’s chalk on his lapels. “There. You look like a credit to your regiment. Doesn’t he, Sandalphon?”

“Oh, yes. A credit.”

Aziraphale could not have been shaking more if the ribbon had been a noose. Surely Crowley was gone? Where was he? “Th- thank you.”

“You deserve it! Heaven should make sure angels get what they deserve, don’t you think? Speaking of which, that’s not all, we’ve got some news. _Exciting_ news,” Gabriel said, and looked at something over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “But first – what are those?”

“They, they’re flowers,” said Aziraphale. Gabriel was silent. This obviously wasn’t enough. “I, I think in English they’re called hydrangeas? They’re quite new to England, I, I first saw them in the Orient-“

“So… you cut them, and brought them inside?”

"Er, no. No. Um. I bought them.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Aziraphale wanted to close his eyes. “Because I thought they were pretty.”

Gabriel stared at him. “You thought they were pretty.”

“And, well, as a representative of Heaven I think that it’s always our duty to remind people of the beauty and wonder of creation-“

“The prettiness of creation,” said Sandalphon. His lips were stretched in the distant cousin of a smile.

“Are you here to spend money on things that are pretty, Aziraphale?” Gabriel asked cordially, and Aziraphale finally dropped his gaze to the carpet.

“No. No. It was frivolous. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you here?”

“To, um, to obey any and all of Heaven’s commands regarding humanity, and in the absence of specific commands, to spread fear of the Lord and to encourage acts of goodness and holiness.” That was better. He knew the training manual backwards and forwards.

“And, apparently, to surround yourself with material objects that you think are _pretty_.”

Aziraphale winced. He wished he hadn’t chosen that word. “I’m very sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“I know you won’t. And I doubt we’ll have to worry about that kind of thing from your replacement. Oh, right!” Gabriel slapped his forehead. “That was the exciting news, before you distracted me! You’re being promoted.”

The scars that marked where his lower wings had once been flared with pain; it wrapped around his whole chest, and worked in between his ribs like needles. He swallowed. “Oh. How. Um.”

He could _not_ be sick. It was centuries since the last time his corporation had vomited, but it was about to make another game attempt at it: his mouth was full of bitter saliva and of his own tongue, swollen and hot. He was granted the vision of himself throwing up all over the Archangel Gabriel’s polished Hessians, and it made something between his stomach and his throat clench violently.

Gabriel’s smile hadn’t flickered. His gaze hadn’t left Aziraphale’s face. “How long you’ve been waiting, eh? To come home.”

He thought of Crowley, and instead of vomiting bile, he vomited the words instead: “But- but I don’t want to! I want to stay here!”

There was a deafening silence in the bookshop.

Gabriel cocked his head to the right, like an eagle staring down a rabbit. “What was that, Aziraphale?”

“I’m so sorry – I only meant-“

“You only meant _what_?!” Gabriel said, suddenly shouting. Behind him, Sandalphon started to grin. “You’re not here for your own amusement! You’re here because you disgraced yourself, and you needed to be stationed somewhere unimportant so you didn’t fuck up anything else!” Gabriel stepped forward, and Aziraphale felt his back press against one of the pillars. Gabriel seemed monstrously huge, blocking out all the light streaming through the windows and from above, casting him into shadow. “I’d have thought you’d want to come back, Aziraphale. I’d have thought you’d want to be with your fellow angels.”

“I do – I,” he tried, and swallowed desperately. “I’d like to see the mission out to the end. To. To see it through. To take responsibility for everything in Eden, I, I don’t think I’ve fully atoned yet. I mean, I am entirely, _completely_ repentant, but everything you said about responsibility and- and- and penitence, you um, you really made me see how much I deserved everything. I mean, um, Raphael offered me a position in his laboratory, and I said, oh, no, Gabriel put me here, so, so here’s where I should stay.”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “Why would you mention Raphael, Aziraphale?”

He tried to retreat into his coat. “Raphael said that I could stay on Earth. That I had the choice.” His eyes flicked down towards Sandalphon. Sandalphon, who had begun to inspect the shelves, and who was sniffing, a look of disgust and growing suspicion on his face…

If Crowley hadn’t left… if Sandalphon found him…

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked back to Gabriel’s stunning violet ones, and he prayed that Gabriel’s own love for his reputation outweighed his trust in Sandalphon’s sycophancy. “We could _ask_ Raphael…”

Gabriel’s face was like thunder. “Sandalphon. Get out. Make sure no one interrupts us.”

Sandalphon nodded with a horrible leering grin, and stepped outside the shop, closing the door behind him. Aziraphale’s knees almost buckled in relief, and then threatened to give out entirely when Gabriel slammed him backwards against the pillar so hard that he saw stars. “Are you _threatening_ me, sunshine?”

“Never,” Aziraphale said. “Never, never, I’m- I only meant-“

“I know exactly what you meant!” Gabriel twisted his fist in the medal’s ribbon and it cut into the back of Aziraphale’s neck. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

He’d been too stunned to move when they’d cut off his eagle’s head. That was the scar at the back. The pain made him think of the light of God receding away from him, without a chance for him to even _explain_ to Her, to apologise… “No, no, _never_. Never, Gabriel.”

He lifted his hands, to gently push Gabriel away from him, and thought better of it. ”Please. I was confused. I. Whatever you want, of course – whatever you’re, you’re generous enough to – and the medal, wow, as you said, it’s, it’s really something-“

Gabriel let go of the ribbon and smoothed it flat. “Isn’t it.”

“Oh, _yes_. Yes. And I’m just- you know me, I can be a bit slow – sudden changes always fluster me – we can’t all be as fast and as powerful as lightning! I’m, I’m, I’m more like a candle, you know, an unexpected wind makes me flicker, that’s all it was. Scatters my thoughts.”

“Hmm. Yes. I have noticed that about you.” Gabriel finally stepped back, and Aziraphale sagged in relief. “You worried me there for a second.”

“I’m so sorry, Gabriel. For being so thoughtless.”

“Well, in that case, all is forgiven. As for your replacement… if Raphael said that you could remain on Earth, then you must remain here.”

Stars of relief were exploding in his peripheral vision. “Really?”

“Of course. His and my thoughts are the same in all regards. We agree on everything. Loyalty. It's what makes us angels." Gabriel was suddenly smiling again. “Besides! It’d probably not even be worth replacing you at this point. It’s only another three hundred years to go before… well. I don’t need to tell you!”

“Three hundred years…” He had to tell Crowley. They only had three hundred years.

“I know, I know – too long to wait! But all good things, Aziraphale, all good things. It’ll be worth your patience, I promise! Sandalphon!”

Gabriel picked up his top hat from the table where he’d left it and jammed it over his fashionable Brutus hairstyle as Sandalphon stepped back inside. “I need to amend the paperwork if you insist on staying – always making more work for me! – so we’ll be off.”

“Is Aziraphale not coming with us?”

“No, no. A stickler for his duty! He insisted on staying.”

“Well, that’s really going above and beyond the call. See? The reformative power of justice,” Sandalphon said, and punched Aziraphale’s arm. Hard. “Good for you.”

“I’ll let Raphael know you gave him your best wishes,” Gabriel said. “Oh, and keep the medal.”

As they walked down the street, Aziraphale locked the door. He flipped the new sign from OPEN to CLOSED. Then he tore down the sign which proclaimed, _“THE GRAND OPENING OF MR. A. FELL’S, PURVEYOR OF BOOKS TO THE GENTRY, ESTABLISHED 1800 – TODAY!”_ , and tore it in half, into quarters, into eighths.

“What,” said a silkily furious voice behind him, “the _fuck_ was that?”

The pieces of paper scattered like confetti. “What are _you_ still doing here?!” Aziraphale cried with a strangled gasp; he looked out of the windows to see if Crowley had been seen. “Go!”

“No! Aziraphale, what the Heaven _was_ all that?”

“That-“ Aziraphale said, and felt the hot pricking of imminent betrayal in the corners of his eyes. Bad enough that his opening should be so completely ruined; bad enough that he had had to grovel in fear, to cower in terror before Gabriel. But to have had to do it with _Crowley_ eavesdropping… Crowley, by whom he so wanted to be liked, thought well of. A sinful, idiotic desire. The shame made the bile in his throat boil. “I want you to leave, right this instant!”

He thought Crowley was going to make a _comment_. He thought Crowley was going to say that if that was how Aziraphale reacted to a _medal_ and a _promotion_ then he wouldn’t last thirty seconds in Hell. The _comment_ was coming and he couldn’t bear it. “Get out!”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, voice low and urgent. “He said we only have three hundred years.”

“Get out! Go! I was trying to- _go_!” He felt like a kettle again: the sick humiliation and the aftertaste of his fear were like steam, shrieking out of him.

“Calm down, hey, hey, hey, angel.” The pieces of paper were whipping around them furiously. “I’ll go. There’s hot tea through there. I’ll go, just… just breathe.”

“Leave me alone!” Aziraphale said, and squeezed his eyes closed. "Please, _go_!"

When he’d swallowed the tears, and when he could breathe again, he opened his eyes. Crowley was gone.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my LORD I am so, so sorry for how long this has taken! And it's not even finished - it ended up becoming a monstrosity of a chapter so I thought that two shorter chapters sooner might be better than one long one later. I've been job-hunting and it's the most depressing, de-moralising grind, and you're all just so kind and leave the most wonderful comments! I'M SO LUCKY YOU'RE ALL READING, thank you so much for sticking with me and being so understanding! <3

Canes snapped. Iron rusted. Brass tarnished. Flowers wilted; leaves on trees shook in a wind that suddenly howled between the buildings. One horse bolted, throwing her rider, a young ensign in the 61st. Another tried to break free of his carriage harness, splintering the shaft and panicking his hitched partner.

Crowley didn’t notice any of this as he stalked down Brook Street, despite being the cause of it all.

All he could see was Gabriel slamming Aziraphale against that pillar. There had been a smear of blood left on it. Crowley, in his serpentine form, miniscule beneath a bookshelf, had seen the heat of it. He could see Gabriel choking Aziraphale with the ribbon of his own medal. He could see Aziraphale’s hand going to push Gabriel away, before the angel had thought better of it, and held them out at his sides. Showing his defencelessness. Hoping to inspire pity. Demonstratively not fighting back.

He could see the way Sandalphon had grinned at Aziraphale and punched him on the arm, hard enough to break a human’s humerus. That was the Archangel of Sodom and Gomorrah. The Archangel who had turned one of Aziraphale’s charges into a pillar of salt.

He could see the naked shame on Aziraphale’s face, as he realised Crowley had witnessed it all.

There was knowing a thing, and there was _seeing_ it. Crowley had tucked away everything Kakob had told him after their enforced holiday in Babylon, and even the glances into that box of denial – at Jesus’s execution; in Rome, when Aziraphale took the seat below him at that oyster dinner with What’shisname; when Aziraphale had let himself be starved and beaten to a pulp in Fumone rather than get a ‘slap on the wrist’ – had become rarer as Aziraphale settled into life in London, and over time the lid had gathered dust.

Because Crowley couldn’t cope with what was inside. As every year went on, and he fell more in love with Aziraphale – yes, _yes_ , fine, all right, not that that was the point of this furious train of thought – the image of Aziraphale with his wings being _sawn off_ had become too unbearable, too-

A four-in-hand nearly mowed him down as he crossed the street; with a wave of his hand the carriage’s wheels disappeared, and it fell two feet with a heavy thud and shrieks from within.

In love within Aziraphale. He’d known since Nippur, and the initial resentment and anger had stretched, like copper being made into a wire – it had become soft and thin and long, until the rage had turned into longing, into tenderness, into a kind of astonished admiration and incredulity.

Bloody ironic, given the old plan. The _old_ , old plan. He remembered sitting in a tavern in Jericho and noticing that Aziraphale had a little infatuation, and how he’d leant forward to let their knees touch, how he’d touched the back of the angel’s hand, how he’d topped up his wine to get him to talk about that blessed sword…

_“I can’t, Crawly, I can’t talk about it! If Gabriel found out- you don’t understand-”_

He cringed so deeply it felt like his skeleton was trying to escape from his body in contact embarrassment.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t fair that Crowley knew how Aziraphale kissed, how he tasted, the surprised and delighted sounds he could make and his _literal_ post-coital glow, the ridiculous creature. These thoughts surfaced to torment him about once a century, when he allowed himself a day to wallow and drink and eat something laced with syrup or honey or sugar, and then got back to enjoying the wild ride that was life on Earth and friendship with Heaven’s bitchiest and most amusing messenger, but it was obscene that they should remerge _now._

Now, when he knew what pure terror looked like on Aziraphale’s face. True terror.

What was he meant to do with that? He knew what he _wanted_ to do. He wanted to storm Heaven. In the War the angel named Hastiel had shoved a spear into his hand and he hadn’t known what to do with it. Oh, he knew now. He had had plenty of practice in killing angels. How many would he have to kill, before he reached Gabriel?

They’d all watched Aziraphale’s heads cut off and did nothing. However many he had to kill, it would never be enough.

The Aristeia of Anthony Crowley. He’d never been good with a spear or a sword, but he wouldn’t need either. He’d carry hellfire in with him. They’d scream, but only for a second. Not like Aziraphale had screamed, for Satan knew how long, while they all _fucking watched_. No time, with hellfire, for the screams to turn to wails, to sobs, to silence. No need to live with the memory for millennia.

Hellfire was almost too kind for them. Too kind, especially, for Gabriel.

A man blocked his way on the pavement. Crowley barely saw as he fell to the ground, clutching his chest, hoarsely calling for help. Crowley stepped over him.

He stopped. “Fucking Heaven.”

He healed the gasping idiot on the floor, and walked on.

The front door to his building fell forward off its hinges and Crowley walked right over it. The fashionable wallpaper in Scheele’s Green smouldered and crinkled as he took the stairs three at a time, perfuming the air with arsine gas. When he walked into his rooms he went straight to the bedroom window, and then back to the front door.

Back and forth he paced all afternoon, all evening, until his legs could not longer keep up with his racing mind. He wanted to get drunk. He wanted to march right back to Soho and… and what?

He dropped down onto the vast bed, sinking several inches into the crimson satin. What was he going to say in the morning? If Aziraphale let him in… He would. He had to. But then Crowley would say… what, exactly?

What possible comfort could he offer? He asked the darkened room. There was none. No reassurance. No hope.

When Crowley woke up, he found he’d pulled the counterpane up over his head. He untangled himself and closed his eyes against the sunlight which filled the room, blazing painfully through the unshuttered windows.

He groaned, and buried his face in the pillows again. The sleep had softened the vice around his lungs somewhat, but he still had no idea what he was going to say to Aziraphale. Perhaps he could just pretend it had never happened? Waltz in, pretend they were going to have a do-over of opening day?

And Aziraphale would take that to mean that Crowley was ashamed too.

He was dreading getting out of bed. Once he was out of bed, the day loomed before him, fraught and dangerous. Talking to Aziraphale about what he’d witnessed would not be easy. It wouldn’t be easy even if Aziraphale was the most gregarious, secure, and emotionally open being in existence, which, of course, he was emphatically not. 

And Crowley was hardly good at that whole thing either.

They were both so _powerless_ , and he knew from personal experience that Aziraphale would be feeling humiliated as well as… He groaned, and resisted the temptation to go back to sleep. No. He had to go today; it had been the right thing to do yesterday, to leave while Aziraphale was so raw, but having been given time to lick his wounds the humiliation would probably have become the dominant force, so it was up to Crowley to go to him, to reassure him that Crowley didn’t think any less of _him_. That if Crowley was angry, it was only on his behalf. That if he was shocked…

He rolled over, and stared at the underside of the bed’s canopy. The demonic approval of cobwebs warred with the Crowleyan dislike of untidiness. He’d have to tell the housekeeper to do a better job. She obviously had no idea how well he could see in the dark, and had probably thought he would never notice. Or she’d just forgotten…

He idly imagined screaming in her face about how useless she was. Threatening to turf her out without a reference. He imagined the way she would cower and plead, beg him for forgiveness. Wait until she had abased herself thoroughly, admitted his superiority in every way, then loftily allow her to continue to serve him.

He might have done it, once. He used to enjoy making people cry and beg. They didn’t need to have done anything _wrong_ , it just made him feel powerful, to be able to speak to humans or lesser demons the way he was spoken to in Hell.

The pleasure in it had begun to pale, the more time he spent around humans. The pleasure he was able to wring from contempt had grown less and less. He’d watch other humans do the same thing to each other, and he’d begun to realise how pathetic it was, when the only fight you were able to win was against someone who couldn’t fight back.

Maybe it was having a proper rival that had taught him that. How much more amusing it was to have a real opponent. Even the angels they’d started sending against him had been unimaginative and predictable, back before the Flood. Every fight he’d won had sustained him for less and less time. Until Aziraphale. Until someone whose actions he couldn’t reliably predict came along, and who could _argue_ …

Now, he imagined shouting at his housekeeper, and all he could think of was the way Aziraphale had cringed away from Gabriel, how terrified he had been, and how sick with helplessness and fury Crowley had felt.

He needed to piss, as he occasionally did when he fell asleep without meaning to. He luxuriated on the bed until the discomfort outweighed the warm denseness of his limbs. He kicked out the never-used chamberpot out from under the bed and baptised the thing.

It was almost worth it, he thought – the relief and relaxation what followed it. It was such a _human_ thing to do. He hummed a few bars of 'The British Grenadiers' as he went to the window and looked down into the Square. It was a beautiful morning, and the paths of the square were full of the usual wealthy perambulators…

There. He spotted a young couple, visibly very much in love, trailed by the young lady’s chaperone. He imagined the contents of the chamberpot over their heads and let it drop.

He watched idly as the couple stopped walking, stared up at the cloudless sky, and then realised what covered them. Crowley threw up the sash in the hope of hearing what was being screamed: the beau was shouting in his young lady’s face, as though she was to blame somehow; she, on the other hand, had her faced scrunched up under her bonnet and was letting out a loud, high wail, without ceasing.

_She should be in the opera_ , Crowley thought, snickering, _with those lungs_. A little malice was a better wake-me-up than tea or coffee. The entire Square had stopped, with many running towards the loud couple. The women’s enormous skirts and upper sleeves created-

Hang on.

The women’s dresses had tight waists – _low_ , tight waists – and wide skirts.

Yesterday, all the women had been dressed à la grecque, in dresses like a peplos: white muslin, loose and light, bound under the breasts.

Crowley’s blood turned to ice-melt.

He stuck his head out of the window and shouted down at a man watching the commotion. “Oi!”

The man looked up. “I say!”

“What year is it?!”

“I _beg_ your pardon?”

“The year, you idiot, what year is it?!” Panic was beginning to make him light-headed.

The man sniffed haughtily. “I don’t know where you’re getting your opium in _this_ neighbourhood, young man, but-“

_**“WHAT IS THE YEAR.”** _

The man went white at whatever Crowley’s face was doing. “1832!”

“Fuck!” screamed Crowley. A flock of starlings took off. “ _FUCK_!”


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omgggg, I'm sorry for how long this took! I only went and caught bloody COVID. XD On the road to recovery now, still very tired and headachy, but over the main hump, I hope. This chapter was A NIGHTMARE to write and I wouldn't have been able to finish it without all of you being so kind and so encouraging. I reread your comments from the last couple of chapters so many times, you have no idea. <333333

Crowley didn’t need to breathe, but he’d got into the habit when he’d found himself awakening from his first few naps buried under several feet of earth or having his leg gnawed by a wild dog. He was regretting it now, as he sprinted through Doghouse Close, though he had allowed himself a shriek of horror at the sight of an utterly changed Swallow Street. He never thought he’d feel a stab of relief at the sight of the new Marlborough Street Magistrates Court.

Aziraphale’s bookshop was still _standing_ , at least, still had _MR A. FELL PURVEYOR OF BOOKS TO THE GENTRY_ emblazoned across the top. Inside, it looked completely different.

There were no flowers. But it was full, full to the rafters: shelves and chairs and little tables and _books_ , heaving with books. They glared down at Crowley, arrayed in circles above him, row upon row of them, stretching up towards the bright expanse of sky visible through the glass oculus directly overhead.

“ _Eugene Aram_? Yes, we have some copies right here – I taught him Chaldee, actually, _such_ a shame about the murder – here it is, madam. That will be ten shillings and sixpence, if you would be so kind.”

Crowley looked to his left. Behind a pillar, in an alcove to the side, Aziraphale spoke to a woman in a maroon dress.

He was there. He was still in London, sounding… Sounding _there_ , most importantly. But his voice was slower than it used to be. There was something leaden to it, underneath the surface shine.

He was able to see Aziraphale for just a second before the angel saw him. The pale pinks and silvers and lilacs of his last outfit were nowhere to be seen. He wore only shades of beige.

Fawn and fallow.

Aziraphale’s head darted up, and he looked straight at Crowley.

There was a lightning flash of emotion across the angel’s face, there and gone, replaced by a carved-ivory stillness. Aziraphale smiled at him. “Ah, Crowley – I’ll be with you in just one second. Madam, I’m afraid the shop is now closed-“

The woman was still rifling through her reticule. “Oh, but I haven’t paid you-“

“Discounted. Take it. As a gift. Now, if you would be so kind,” Aziraphale said, hustling her out.

Crowley watched him lock the door behind her. Flip the sign. Stay for a moment, showing his back to the demon, shoulders trembling with the effort of stillness.

Then he turned, and he smiled pleasantly. “So, you’re awake? Capital. Hm. Would you like some tea?”

Crowley felt as though his brain was melting. “What?”

“Tea?”

“No, no, you- you?” As he’d run through London his mind had flashed with brilliant phrases of penitence and grovelling – mad, perfect phrases that would squeeze forgiveness out of Aziraphale like juice from a piece of fruit – and now the angel had metaphorically gripped his ankles, upended him, and shaken him until his understanding of the world tinkled out around his ears.

“I’d partake if I were making a pot, certainly.”

“No, I mean – you knew I was _asleep_?”

Crowley suddenly learnt what Nero would have seen when Aziraphale had been his _paedagogus_. “Really, Crowley, of course I did. You must think I’m the most incompetent agent in the cosmos if my enemy disappears without so much as a polite note and I don’t take steps to find out what had happened to him.”

“Ssteps?”

“Not very many. Only about twenty minute’s worth to Grosvenor Square. All done before my morning cup of tea."

“I never told you I live in Grosvenor Square. I’ve only just moved there – I mean, I’d only just…”

“Crowley, for Heaven’s sake – you always take rooms in the most fashionable street you can find – always identified with pinpoint accuracy, I must admit. It took all of ten minutes asking people in the square where I might find Mr. Crowley. They all think you’re Irish, you know, and trying to hide it with English manners and an English accent. Which I found amusingly ironic.” Aziraphale abruptly turned. “Tea.”

“Why didn’t you _wake_ me?”

“I’m not your footman!” Aziraphale’s face spasmed, and he turned away sharply. “Besides, when was I supposed to know when you’d want to wake up?”

There it was. Crowley swallowed. “Look, I’m _sorry_ -“

Aziraphale turned back and gave him a smile like an icicle. “Whatever for, dear boy? I asked you to leave, and you did. You’re excellent at giving people exactly what they want, aren’t you?”

Crowley winced. It had been a long time since he’d been on the receiving end of one of Aziraphale’s needles. “No, _no_.”

Aziraphale was looking away from him again, which was even worse than the look of cool anger. It meant Aziraphale was feeling something he didn’t want Crowley to see. “It was _entirely_ my fault for not specifying how long I wished to be alone for-“

Crowley put his face in his hands and made a sound of frustration. “Nnnrgh – no! It was a mistake – it was an _accident_ , Aziraphale.”

“… an accident.”

“I fell asleep accidentally!” Crowley said. He gestured helplessly at his clothes. “I lay on the bed, just for a second, and-“

“And then you woke up _thirty-two years later_?”

“Yes!”

Aziraphale gaped at him like a pale fish. “What absolute humbuggery.”

Crowley was momentarily jerked out of his despair. “Hum _what_?”

“What- what balderdash! After-“ Aziraphale glanced away again, this time down at the fire. “Do you need something now, hm? Hell’s getting upset about the Abolitionists, are they? Or have they heard about the Reform Bill?”

“I don’t know anything about any reform bill!”

“Oh, so you _happened_ to wake up on the seventh of June purely coincidentally-“

“I needed to piss!”

The silence reverberated, and Aziraphale slowly shook his head in outrage. _“Well.”_

Crowley groaned at the unfairness of it all. “Could you, for five seconds, stop being such a dickhead while I’m trying to apologise?!”

“Stellar job, Crowley, it’s an apology for the ages!”

Fuck this. _Fuck_ this. He spread his hands, turned around, and walked right out of the bookshop.

Crowley stood on the pavement outside the shop, staring blindly at unfamiliar shop faces. His chest heaved, and he could feel the anger and the despair leeching out of him just like it had yesterday.

Just like it had thirty-two years ago.

He turned around and stormed back into the bookshop.

“One!” he said, walking right up to Aziraphale and holding a finger up in front of his ashen, devastated face. “Yes, this apology isn’t great, but I haven’t exactly had a lot of practice! And two, you not being able to cope with what you’re feeling and shoving me away is exactly what landed us in this pile of nightsoil to start with, so no, I’m not going to fuck off because it didn’t work out particularly well!”

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide, the colour of a sea-change. Crowley’s heart hammered against his sternum, and he _willed_ Aziraphale to finally crack open for him. He needed to solve this, to fix this, but he couldn’t even put a name to whatever _this_ was, and Aziraphale would be damned before he helped him on that score.

_Please_ , he knew his eyes were begging. He blinked, and his tinted glasses vanished. " _Please._ We’ve only got three hundred years. Not even that, now. Please, angel, work with me here. You’re the only person who’s ever _worked with me_.”

“Don’t…” Aziraphale looked at him with equally naked eyes, just for a second. Then his shoulders suddenly sank, and he gave the impression of a too-taut bowstring snapping. “Don’t you try your soft talk on _me_ , you old serpent.”

Crowley exhaled. “You’re one to accuse _me_ of soft talk.” It was a risk. Fuck, it felt like one of the biggest risks Crowley had taken – to witness someone’s humiliation and then tease them about it was a more dangerous game that any Crowley had played in a long time.

_Oh, Crawly, Crawly…_

He breached the gap and took Aziraphale’s hand. He let all of his protective fury and shock and hatred for Gabriel rise to his skin, let it seep past Aziraphale’s flesh and bones and saw the angel recognise it. “That’s why I really left,” Crowley said. “Saw you were better at manipulating that fucker than I could be. Had to lick my wounds.”

“Dreadfully sorry,” Aziraphale choked.

“It was brave of you.”

“No,” Aziraphale said instantly. “Please don’t.” He finally looked at Crowley as though he was really seeing him, up and down. “You really were asleep all this time…?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Crowley said, with desperate relief. “Yes. I was so angry – angry at _him_ , angel, before you get the wrong idea and twist yourself in knots – I paced around my rooms until I was exhausted. I lay on the bed for just one second…”

“And slept for thirty-two years…” Aziraphale blinked, shook out his invisible wings, and gave him a small smile. A small one, but a real one. “The preference for gentlemen these days is a broader cut at the shoulders. And you have dust in your hair. It looks rather more cinerous than the usual fiery red – _no_ , don’t you _dare_ brush it out over my lovely display. Honestly. I see your little nap has done nothing for your manners.”

Crowley looked out the window, spotted someone who looked appropriately pleased with himself, and with a gesture clothed himself in an immaculately up-to-date outfit. “Let me apologise properly. Explain it all. You can harangue me at length and I’ll take it like a lamb. I have no idea where’s decent, so you pick, and I’ll pay. You can bring me up to date.”

“Oh, there’s an awful lot,” said Aziraphale. “Let me think. There was this fellow called Napoleon – I told Heaven that you were egging him on in conquering Europe, you might want to claim credit for that in your next missive – Regency – honestly, what a few years to sleep through. I almost feel sorry for you.”

“Gracious as ever.” Crowley held out his arm. “This still allowed?”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale said, visibly hesitating, but he linked it with his own. “… Crowley?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, staring resolutely at the door. “Gabriel. I suspect you plan bring it up again when we’ve had enough to drink, and if you do, I shall walk out and… and I’ll never talk to you again. Are we clear?”

Crowley stopped breathing. He could feel the minute tremble of Aziraphale’s arms through all the layers of wool and linen. “Crystal.”

*

Over the next forty years, things began to return to the way they had been.

It was not easy. It took Aziraphale a great deal of effort to pretend that everything was all right, that his heart hadn’t been broken again. But Crowley hadn’t intended to fall asleep. It had been an accident. And Aziraphale did not want to be the kind of person – the kind of angel – who punished someone for an honest mistake.

Especially not when they had less than a quarter of a millennium together.

Keeping Jesus’s distinction in his head, between forgiveness as a feeling and forgiveness as an action, he resolved to perform as well as he possibly could.

So they ate in restaurants, and drank good French wine, and fed the ducks in St. James’s Park. And, gradually, Aziraphale began to believe just a little that Crowley might really appear at their next rendez-vous.

Crowley made it easier by scrupulously obeying Aziraphale’s demand that they not talk about Gabriel. Even when Aziraphale received a very nasty letter about the Taiping Rebellion, Crowley listened to his complaints, asked generic questions, and gave absolutely no indication of knowing that a nasty letter might not be the end of the matter.

With all of that in mind, Aziraphale was enjoying the month of July, 1872. The Ballot Act he’d been working so hard on had received royal assent on the 18th, and so now he was taking a little holiday. Tomorrow, on the 30th, he’d been selling all his new copies of the latest book of _Middlemarch_ in the morning and seeing Crowley in the park in the afternoon, but tonight all he had to do was to put his feet up, mix a Pimm’s No. 1 Cup in deference to the summer heat, and read Book V.

He had been enjoying _Middlemarch_ immensely; he was quite certain it would turn out to be Eliot’s (Evans’s) masterpiece. Dorothea was a character achingly well-written, with all her qualities and flaws, and her marriage to Casaubon (his unkindness growing in line with his jealousy) made his heart ache in sympathy. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure about young Frederick yet, but… An idealist in love with a prickly rule-breaker was a story that had its merits, in his opinion.

It came at the end of Chapter 44. _Dorothea told him that she had seen Lydgate, and recited the gist of her conversation with him about the Hospital. Mr. Casaubon did not question her further, but he felt sure that she had wished to know what had passed between Lydgate and himself. “She knows that I know,” said the ever-restless voice within; but that increase of tacit knowledge only thrust further off any confidence between them. He distrusted her affection; and what loneliness is more lonely than distrust?_

Aziraphale fell into the white lacuna between the end of the chapter and the beginning of the next.

_What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?_

His head swam, and he miracled the gin out of his system. He stood up – sat down – reread the paragraph again.

He closed the book, stood up, put it down. The increase of tacit knowledge…

Aziraphale went through to the little back room which held his washing bowl and his wine. Underneath a Persian astrolabe and fidchell set was a plain wooden box; this he opened, and took out the shards of alabaster within.

He’d found it in the garden – not _The_ Garden, obviously – the garden outside the city walls of Jerusalem, where the rich could afford rock-cut tombs. Salome or Mary must have dropped the jar full of embalming herbs in shock when they’d found the tomb empty and Jesus’ body gone.

Aziraphale had never been able to bear miracling it back together again after that. It had felt symbolic of something. Rock tombs smashed open…

It had been stupid of him, he thought, looking at the pieces now. It was a flaw of his. He was always looking for patterns where they didn’t exist. There was a whitewashed tomb waiting for him that was still perfectly whole, and keeping a box full of ancient shards of alabaster didn’t change that.

He knew why it had hurt so much. For thirty-two years, he’d lived with an old wound torn open again.

Deep down in the core of his being was an arrogant, defiant belief: that he hadn’t deserved Heaven’s punishment for Eden. Oh, he’d deserved _some_ punishment, certainly, but perhaps not the cruelty of his public demotion. And not the torture of the Cube.

He turned the pieces of alabaster over in his hands. That had been unintentional. He had to be fair. Gabriel had forgotten about him. That had been an accident too…

In Waset, Crowley had confirmed that secret belief, fanned it, and then snuffed it out. And he’d done it _again_ : witnessed Aziraphale’s humiliation, been so _kind_ , and then… vanished. For decades.

It was the kindness that hurt the most. Gabriel too had orchestrated Aziraphale’s humiliation and then abandoned him to the Cube, but not without letting him feel for a while that the Cube itself was a kindness. Violence, humiliation, kindness, loneliness. If Crowley had just voiced his disgust at Aziraphale’s cringing, cowardly flattery and _then_ left, without leaving Aziraphale with the hope that _tomorrow_ Crowley would come, that Crowley _didn’t_ think less of him, _tomorrow_ –

He opened his hand. The shard of alabaster was bright red; he’d been clutching it so tightly it had made quite the mess of his palm. He felt the red pain give way to warm tiredness.

George Eliot was wrong. Even if some part of Aziraphale still distrusted Crowley’s affection, or at least his reliability – she had no idea. No idea. What human could? All of that, all that emotion, all the distrust and self-loathing and doubt that came from being friends with such an unreliable, mercurial, _fascinating_ demon…

He knew what he had to do. What he _would_ do, when their period of grace came to an end. Aziraphale didn’t bother to clean the blood from the broken alabaster as he placed it back in its box.

The certainty felt cold, like icemelt in his veins. What he was certain of was that if Heaven won, he would be put away again. The loneliness waiting for him after the end of the world was so much more lonely than distrust.


End file.
